Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837 – 1909)
English poet.
And lo, between the sundawn and the sun
His day’s work and his night’s work are undone:
And lo, between the nightfall and the light,
He is not, and none knoweth of such an one.
To wipe off the froth of falsehood from the foaming lips of inebriated virtue, when fresh from the sexless orgies of morality and reeling from the delirious riot of religion, may doubtless be a charitable office.
I believe
Not more in God's word than in yours; and this
Not for your station's sake, nor yet your fame's,
How high soe'er the wind of war have blown
The splendour of your standard: but, my lord,
Your face and heart and speech, being one, require
Of any not base-born and servile-souled
Faith: and my faith I give you.
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.
I have no remedy for fear; there grows
No herb of help to heal a coward heart.
Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat,
They stretch and spread and wink
Their ten soft buds that part and meet.
Dream that the lips once breathless
Might quicken if they would;
Say that the soul is deathless;
Dream that the gods are good;
Say March may wed September,
And time divorce regret;
But not that you remember,
And not that I forget.
Change lays not her hand upon truth.
His life is a watch or a vision
Between a sleep and a sleep.