There was a poor poet named Clough, Whom his friends all united to puff, But the public, though dull, Had not such a skull As belonged to believers in Clough.
Algernon Charles SwinburneWho knows but on their sleep may rise Such light as never heaven let through To lighten earth from Paradise?
Algernon Charles SwinburneBut now, you are twain, you are cloven apart Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart.
Algernon Charles SwinburneTo 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.
Algernon Charles Swinburne