A.C. Swinburne quotes

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In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,
At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee,...
- MORE In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,
At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee,
Walled round with rocks as an inland island,
The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep;
And though she saw all heaven in flower above,
She would not love.
- MORE Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep;
And though she saw all heaven in flower above,
She would not love.
And the best and the worst of this is
That neither is most to blame,...
- MORE And the best and the worst of this is
That neither is most to blame,
If you have forgotten my kisses
And I have forgotten your name.
His speech is a burning fire;
With his lips he travaileth;...
- MORE His speech is a burning fire;
With his lips he travaileth;
In his heart is a blind desire,
In his eyes foreknowledge of death:
He weaves, and is clothed with derision;
Sows, and he shall not reap;
His life is a watch or a vision
Between a sleep and a sleep.
Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,
Maiden most perfect,lady of light,
Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,
Maiden most perfect,lady of light,
When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,
The mother of months in meadow or plain...
- MORE 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;
For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the seasons of snows and sins;...
- MORE For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the seasons of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
Before the beginning of years
There came to the making of man...
- MORE Before the beginning of years
There came to the making of man
Time, with a gift of tears;
Grief, with a glass that ran;
Hast thou found any likeness for thy vision?
O gardener of strange flowers, what bud, what bloom,...
- MORE Hast thou found any likeness for thy vision?
O gardener of strange flowers, what bud, what bloom,
Hast thou found sown, what gather'd in the gloom?
O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping,
That were athirst for sleep and no more life...
- MORE O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping,
That were athirst for sleep and no more life
And no more love, for peace and no more strife!
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