“She hath wasted with fire thine high places, She hath hidden and marred and made sad The fair limbs of the Loves, the fair faces Of gods that were goodly and glad. She slays, and her hands are not bloody; She moves as a moon in the wane, White-robed, and thy raiment is ruddy, Our Lady of 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