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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=392094" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Algernon Charles Swinburne</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">SHRIEKS out of smoke, a flame of dung-straw fire<br>That is not quenched but hath for only fruit<br>What writhes and dies not in its rotten root:<br>Two things made flesh, the visible desire<br>To match in filth the skunk, the ape in ire,<br>Mouthing before the mirrors with wild foot<br>Beyond all feebler footprint of pursuit,<br>The perfect twanger of the Chinese lyre!<br>A heart with generous virtues run to seed<br>In vices making all a jumbled creed:<br>A soul that knows not love nor trust nor shame,<br>But cuts itself with knives to bawl and bleed —<br>If thou we've known of late, art still the same,<br>What need, O soul, to sign thee with thy name?<br>Once on thy lips the golden-honeyed bees<br>Settling made sweet the heart that was not strong,<br>And sky and earth and sea swooned into song:<br>Once on thine eyes the light of agonies<br>Flashed through the soul and robbed the days of ease.<br>But tunes turn stale when love turns babe, and long<br>The exiled gentlemen grow fat with wrong,<br>And peasants, workmen, beggars, what are these?<br>O you who sang the Italian smoke above —<br>Mud-lark of Freedom, pipe of that vile band<br>Whose envy slays the tyrant, not the love<br>Of these poor souls none have the keeping of —<br>It is your hand — it is your pander hand<br>Smites the bruised mouth of pilloried Ireland!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Francis+William+Lauderdale+Adams">Francis William Lauderdale Adams</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=392094" data-title="Algernon Charles Swinburne de Francis William Lauderdale Adams" data-description="SHRIEKS out of smoke, a flame of dung-straw fire
That is not quenched but hath for only fruit
What writhes and dies not in its rotten root:
Two things made flesh, the visible desire
To match in filth the skunk, the ape in ire,
Mouthing before the ..."></div>
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