“When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; And the brown bright nightingale amorous Is half assuaged for Itylus, For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, The tongueless vigil and all the pain.”
“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 ...”
Algernon Charles Swinburne
“Rhyme is the native condition of lyric verse in English; a rhymeless lyric is a maimed thing.”
Algernon Charles Swinburne
“Sweet Love, that art so bitter.”
Algernon Charles Swinburne
“I can truly say with Shelley that I have been fortunate in friendships: that I have been no less fortunate in my enemies than in my friends.”
Algernon Charles Swinburne
“There was a bad poet named Clough, Whom his friends all united to puff. But the public, though dull, Has not quite such a skull As belongs to believers in Clough.”
Algernon Charles Swinburne