Algernon Charles Swinburne

“ The laugh of spring that the heart seeks after,
⁠The hand that the whole world yearns to kiss,
It rings not here in his laughter,
⁠The sign of it is not this.
There is not strength in it left to splinter
⁠Tall oaks, nor frost in his breath to sting:
Yet it is but a breath as of winter,
⁠And it is not the hand of spring. ”

“ As the passage of numberless ages in slumberless song.
Dawn, roused by the lark, would be surely as dark in her sight
As her measureless measure of shadowless pleasure was bright.
Noon, gilt but with glory of gold, would be hoary and grey
In her eyes that had gazed on the depths, unamazed with the day.
Night hardly would seem to make darker her dream never done,
When it could but withhold what a man may behold of the sun. ”

“ But song finds now no pleasure in being,
⁠And love no reason in rhyme.
IV.
Mild May-blossom and proud sweet bay-flower,
⁠What, for shame, would you have with us here?
It is not the month of the May-flower
⁠This, but the fall of the year.
Flowers open only their lips in derision,
⁠Leaves are as fingers that point in scorn:
The shows we see are a vision;
⁠Spring is not verily born. ”

“ Borne back on thy wings as an eagle's expanding, and crowned with the sundawn's gold.
⁠There is not a flower but rejoices,
⁠There is not a leaf but has heard:
⁠All the fields find voices,
⁠All the woods are stirred:
There is not a nest but is brighter because of the coming of one bright bird. ”

“ Birds, and blossoms, and sunlight only,
⁠As though such folly sufficed for spring!
As though the house were not lonely
⁠For want of the child its king!
III.
Asleep and afar to-night my darling
⁠Lies, and heeds not the night,
If winds be stirring or storms be snarling;
⁠For his sleep is its own sweet light.
I sit where he sat beside me quaffing
⁠The wine of story and song
Poured forth of immortal cups, and laughing
⁠When mirth in the draught grew strong. ”

“ Sights engraven on storied pages where man's tale of seven swift ages
⁠All was told—
Seen of eyes yet bright from heaven—for the lips that laughed were seven
⁠Sweet years old.
X.
Why should May remember
⁠March, if March forget
The days that began with December,
⁠The nights that a frost could fret?
All their griefs are done with
⁠Now the bright months bless
Fit souls to rejoice in the sun with,
⁠Fit heads for the wind's caress ”