Algernon Charles Swinburne

This
I ever held worse that all certitude,
To know not what the worst ahead might be.

This
I ever held worse that all certitude,
To know not what the worst ahead might be.

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
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From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives forever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

In fierce March weather
White waves break tether,
And whirled together
At either hand,
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In fierce March weather
White waves break tether,
And whirled together
At either hand,
Like weeds uplifted,
The tree-trunks rifted
In spars are drifted,
Like foam or sand.

No blast of air or fire of sun
Puts out the light whereby we run
With girdled read more

No blast of air or fire of sun
Puts out the light whereby we run
With girdled loins our lamplit race,
And each from each takes heart of grace
And spirit till his turn be done.

Prince, give praise to our French ladies
For the sweet sound their speaking carries;
'Twixt Rome and read more

Prince, give praise to our French ladies
For the sweet sound their speaking carries;
'Twixt Rome and Cadiz many a maid is,
But no good girl's lip out of Paris.
- Algernon Charles Swinburne,