Quote

Fruits fail and love dies and time rangesThou art fed with perpetual breath, and alive after infinite changes,And fresh from the kisses of death,Of langours rekindled and rallied, Of barren delights and unclean,Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallidAnd poisonous queen.

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
Love
Infinite
Breath
Fruits
Rallied
Failing
Breaths
Monstrous
Unclean
Alive
Kissing
Feds
Ranges
Dies
Thou
Queen
Fruitless
Death
Delight
Queens
Poisonous
Art
Fail
Perpetual
Kisses
Things
Fruit
Fresh
Delights
Time
Changes
Range
Barren
Rekindled

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To have read the greatest works of any great poet, to have beheld or heard the greatest works of any great painter or musician, is a possession added to the best things of life.
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Fear that makes faith may break faith.
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O Love, O great god Love, what have I done, That thou shouldst hunger so after my death? My heart is harmless as my life's first day: Seek out some false fair woman, and plague her Till her tears even as my tears fill her bed.
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In hawthorn-time the heart grows light.
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Is not Precedent indeed a King of men? A Word from the Psalmist.
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Who knows but on their sleep may rise Such light as never heaven let through To lighten earth from Paradise?
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Marvellous mercies and infinite love.
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The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.
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Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day that we die.
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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.
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Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
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Love, as is told by the seers of old, Comes as a butterfly tipped with gold, Flutters and flies in sunlit skies, Weaving round hearts that were one time cold.
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Wan February with weeping cheer, Whose cold hand guides the youngling year Down misty roads of mire and rime, Before thy pale and fitful face The shrill wind shifts the clouds apace Through skies the morning scarce may climb. Thine eyes are thick with heavy tears, But lit with hopes that light the year's.
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We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure Today will die tomorrow Time stoops to no man's lure.
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Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives.
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I remember the way we parted, The day and the way we met You hoped we were both broken-hearted And knew we should both forget.
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For winter's rains and ruins are over... And in Green under wood and cover Blossum by blossom the spring begins.
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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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Hope thou not much, and fear thou not at all.
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Not with dreams, but with blood and with iron, Shall a nation be moulded at last.
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