Seven Poems and Songs from Spirit Thorn

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The children of change and their gods;.

As one smote them, their lord and thy servant,. Made smooth for the world and its lords,. When thy gardens were lit with live torches;. When the world was a steed for thy rein;. Stood flushed, as a harp-player stands,. Rose-crowned, having death in his hands;. Smote far through the flight of the fires,. The old kingdoms of earth and the kings?

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As of old when the world's heart was lighter,. Through thy garments the grace of thee glows,.

And seamed with sharp lips and fierce fingers,. But the flame has not fallen from this;.

The poems of John Keats

Though obscure be the god, and though nameless. We know it, the flames and the flakes,. There are none such as knew it of old. Whence a look shot out sharp after thieves. Then still, through dry seasons and moister,. When the grape-blossom freezes with fear;. And ye said, "We have seen, he hath seen us,. To the strength of the sins of that day.

They have brought and baptized her, Our Lady,. And the oyster-bed teems out of reach;. And Catullus makes mouths at our speech. With such lips as he sang with, again? She hath wasted with fire thine high places,. She hath hidden and marred and made sad. The gods and the priests that are pure. They shall pass, and shalt thou not be shaken? They shall perish, and shalt thou endure?

Death laughs, breathing close and relentless. Thou shalt change and transmute as a god,. Thy life shall not cease though thou doff it;. Now he lies out of reach, out of breath,. Though we match not the dead men that bore us. And our lives and our longings are twain —. What is time, that his children should face thee?

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What am I, that my lips do thee wrong? I could hurt thee — but pain would delight thee;. Or caress thee — but love would repel;. Is the breath of them hot in thy hair? With the blood of their bodies grown red? They are fled, and their footprints escape us,. Who appraise thee, adore, and abstain,.

We shall change as the things that we cherish,. We shall know if they sleep not or sleep. More Poems by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Ave Atque Vale.

Dolores (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs) by Algernon Charles Swinburne | Poetry Foundation

A Ballad of Death. A Channel Crossing. See All Poems by this Author. See a problem on this page? More About This Poem.

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About this Poet. Read Full Biography. More About this Poet. Region: England. There's another ligature "OE", which I don't know the name of, but I'm pretty sure it's not "oak". The 'aesc' and 'thorn' letters seem to be hangovers from a Runic script in fact, 'thorn' is still written the same way - you just ask Skarpi.

Until the c19th, Welsh had ligatures and unique letters which disappeared for expediency when written read: printed Welsh became more common.

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  5. This is the reason modern Welsh has the peculiar-looking compound elements like 'll', 'ff' and 'dd' which are actually 'letters' in their own right. I don't think the 'oe' ligature has a name, as it has no equivalent in Runic script systems The A is called AC. A latar-rail is what happens between Milton Keynes and Euston every morning. Went to a session last night The whole question of the relation between "verse" and poetry" is a convoluted one. Personally I think that the way that the terms ever have been confused the way they have has been a seriously damaging mistake.

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    I prefer to see it this way: there is prose, of various sorts, and there is verse of various sorts, and they overlap. Whether you call certain types of writing a kind of free verse or a kind of prose is a purely arbitrary distinction.

    Poetry is what you get when the language and the thought attain a certain level of power, and it can happen in prose or in verse. And Kipling's prose and verse does attain that level not infrequently. All this has nothing to do with the vexed question of Kipling's views about all kinds of other things. I have boldfaced the differences between this and the version in the DT.