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There was a poor poet named Clough, Whom his friends all united to puff, But the public, though dull, Had not such a skull As belonged to believers in Clough.
Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Algernon Charles Swinburne
Age: 72 †
Born: 1837
Born: April 5
Died: 1909
Died: April 10
Literary Critic
Poet
Writer
London
England
Algernon Swinburne
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Algernon Charles Swiburne
Though
Skulls
Friends
Believers
Poor
Named
United
Dull
Believer
Friendship
Skull
Poet
Puff
Public
Belonged
More quotes by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Not with dreams, but with blood and with iron, Shall a nation be moulded at last.
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Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire Dividing my delight and my desire.
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Hope knows not if fear speaks truth, nor fear whether hope be blind as she.
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The beast faith lives on its own dung.
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In fierce March weather White waves break tether, And whirled together At either hand, Like weeds uplifted, The tree-trunks rifted In spars are drifted, Like foam or sand.
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To say of shame - what is it? Of virtue - we can miss it Of sin-we can kiss it, And it's no longer sin.
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At the door of life by the gate of breath, There are worse things waiting for men than death.
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Our way is where God knows And Love knows where: We are in Love's hand to-day.
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Time stoops to no man's lure.
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A little soul scarce fledged for earth Takes wing with heaven again for goal, Even while we hailed as fresh from birth A little soul.
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I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, Change as the winds change, veer in the tide.
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My loss may shine yet goodlier than your gain When Time and God give judgment.
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Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
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From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever That dead men rise up never That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.
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A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think, A baby's feet.
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There lived a singer in France of old By the tideless dolorous midland sea. In a land of sand and rain and gold There shone one woman, and none but she.
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Love is more cruel than lust.
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I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep.
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Sleep and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, If sweet, give thanks thou hast no more to live And to give thanks is good, and to forgive.
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Marvellous mercies and infinite love.
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