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Quotes by S. Swinburne
They say sin touches not a man so near As shame a woman; yet he too should be Part of the penance, being more deep than she Set in the sin.— filed under Singers
Solitary Hours. To a Dying Infant. 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.— filed under Babyhood
Between two seas the sea-bird's wing makes halt, Wind-weary; while with lifting head he waits For breath to reinspire him from the gates That open still toward sunrise on the vault High-domed of morning.— filed under Birds-Sea Bird
White rose in red rose-garden Is not so white; Snowdrops, that plead for pardon And pine for fright Because the hard East blows Over their maiden vows, Grow not as this face grows from pale to bright.— filed under Chaos
Prayer. "Not a child: I call myself a boy," Says my king, with accent stern yet mild; Now nine years have brought him change of joy- "Not a child."— filed under Childhood
And hands that wist not though they dug a grave, Undid the hasps of gold, and drank, and gave, And he drank after, a deep glad kingly draught: And all their life changed in them, for they quaffed Death; if it be death so to drink, and fare As men who change and are what these twain were.— filed under Death
Death, if thou wilt, fain would I plead with thee: Canst thou not spare, of all our hopes have built, One shelter where our spirits fain would be, Death, if thou wilt?— filed under Death
For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother, Take at my hands this garland and farewell. Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell, And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother.— filed under Death
In the world of dreams, I have chosen my part. To sleep for a season and hear no word Of true love's truth or of light love's art, Only the song of a secret bird.— filed under Dreams
When fate has allowed to any man more than one great gift, accident or necessity seems usually to contrive that one shall encumber and impede the other.— filed under Faults
Pass. This flower that smells of honey and the sea, White laurustine, seems in my hand to be A white star made of memory long ago Lit in the heaven of dear times dead to me.— filed under Flowers-Kingcup
Love Lies Bleeding. Amarantus Caudatus. Love lies bleeding in the bed whereover Roses lean with smiling mouths or pleading: Earth lies laughing where the sun's dart clove her: Love lies bleeding.— filed under Flowers-Lotus
A little marsh-plant, yellow green, And prick'd at lip with tender red. Tread close, and either way you tread, Some faint black water jets between Lest you should bruise the curious head.— filed under Flowers-Marsh Marigold
The bolt of Cupid fell: *** upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness. Midsummer-Night's Dream. Act II. Sc. 1. L. 165. Heart's ease or pansy, pleasure or thought, Which would the picture give us of these? Surely the heart that conceived it sought Heart's ease.— filed under Flowers-Pansy
The year of the rose is brief; From the first blade blown to the sheaf, From the thin green leaf to the gold, It has time to be sweet and grow old, To triumph and leave not a leaf.— filed under Flowers-Rose
Ah, thy beautiful hair! so was it once braided for me, for me; Now for death is it crowned, only for death, lover and lord of thee. C.— filed under Hair
Par. 1,144. Nay, then, what flames are these that leap and swell As 'twere to show, where earth's foundations crack, The secrets of the sepulchres of hell On Dante's track?— filed under Help
Sark, fairer than aught in the world that the lit skies cover, Laughs inly behind her cliffs, and the seafarers mark As a shrine where the sunlight serves, though the blown clouds hover, Sark.— filed under Jealousy
Love laid his sleepless head On a thorny rose bed: And his eyes with tears were red, And pale his lips as the dead.— filed under Love
Head. 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.— filed under Love
The ides of March are come. Julius Cæsar. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 1. 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,— filed under Months-March
There is no such thing as a dumb poet or a handless painter. The essence of an artist is that he should be articulate.— filed under Occupations-Painting
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.— filed under Poets
Late snow-like flowery leavings of the snows, Be not too long irresolute to be; O mother-month, where have they hidden thee?— filed under Sows
Cold autumn, wan with wrath of wind and rain, Saw pass a soul sweet as the sovereign tune That death smote silent when he smote again.— filed under Sows
All gifts but one the jealous God may keep From our soul's longing, one he cannotsleep. This, though he grudge all other grace to prayer, This grace his closed hand cannot choose but spare.— filed under Sleep
of David over Saul and Jonathan. SOUL (THE). Time, thy name is sorrow, says the stricken Heart of life, laid waste with wasting flame Ere the change of things and thoughts requicken, Time, thy name.— filed under Sorrow
What shall be done for sorrow With love whose race is run? Where help is none to borrow, What shall be done?— filed under Sorrow
Prince, give praise to our French ladies For the sweet sound their speaking carries; 'Twixt Rome and Cadiz many a maid is, But no good girl's lip out of Paris.— filed under Woman