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    The Springtide of Life - Poems of Childhood - Illustrated by Arthur Rackham
    The Springtide of Life - Poems of Childhood - Illustrated by Arthur Rackham
    The Springtide of Life - Poems of Childhood - Illustrated by Arthur Rackham
    Ebook164 pages56 minutes

    The Springtide of Life - Poems of Childhood - Illustrated by Arthur Rackham

    By Algernon Charles Swinburne and Arthur Rackham

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    About this ebook

    The Springtide of Life – Poems of Childhood is an anthology, collected by Edmund Gosse, containing Algernon Charles Swinburne’s enchanting verses for children. Swinburne (1837 – 1909) was a celebrated English poet and playwright, who was nominated for the Nobel Prize in every year from 1903 to 1907, and again in 1909. His poems are here decorated with the delicate and romantic illustrations of Arthur Rackham. Gosse once told Rackham that ‘this volume will not merely be the best book of the present art-season, but a joy to all sensitive people for years and years to come.’ He was correct in his estimations, and this text continues to delight readers both young and old, almost a century after its initial publication.

    Arthur Rackham (1867-1939), was one of the most celebrated painters of the British Golden Age of Illustration (which encompassed the years from 1850 until the start of the First World War), Rackham’s artistry is quite simply, unparalleled. Throughout his career, he developed a unique style, combining haunting humour with dream-like romance. Presented alongside the text of ‘The Springtide of Life – Poems of Childhood’, his illustrations further refine and elucidate Swinburne and Gosse’s masterful storytelling.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRead Books Ltd.
    Release dateApr 16, 2013
    ISBN9781473389748
    The Springtide of Life - Poems of Childhood - Illustrated by Arthur Rackham

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      Book preview

      The Springtide of Life - Poems of Childhood - Illustrated by Arthur Rackham - Algernon Charles Swinburne

      Herse

      WHEN grace is given us ever to behold

      A child some sweet months old,

      Love, laying across our lips his finger, saith,

      Smiling, with bated breath,

      Hush! for the holiest thing that lives is here,

      And heaven’s own heart how near!

      How dare we, that may gaze not on the sun,

      Gaze on this verier one?

      Heart, hold thy peace; eyes, be cast down for

      Lips, breathe not yet its name. [shame;

      In heaven they know what name to call it; we,

      How should we know? For, see!

      The adorable sweet living marvellous

      Strange light that lightens us

      Who gaze, desertless of such glorious grace,

      Full in a babe’s warm face!

      All roses that the morning rears are nought,

      All stars not worth a thought,

      Set this one star against them, or suppose

      As rival this one rose.

      What price could pay with earth’s whole weight

      One least flushed roseleaf’s fold [of gold

      Of all this dimpling store of smiles that shine

      From each warm curve and line,

      Each charm of flower-sweet flesh, to reillume

      The dappled rose-red bloom

      Of all its dainty body, honey-sweet

      Clenched hands and curled-up feet,

      That on the roses of the dawn have trod

      As they came down from God,

      And keep the flush and colour that the sky

      Takes when the sun comes nigh,

      And keep the likeness of the smile their grace

      Evoked on God’s own face

      When, seeing this work of his most heavenly mood,

      He saw that it was good?

      For all its warm sweet body seems one smile,

      And mere men’s love too vile

      To meet it, or with eyes that worship dims

      Read o’er the little limbs,

      Read all the book of all their beauties o’er,

      Rejoice, revere, adore,

      Bow down and worship each delight in turn,

      Langh, wonder, yield, and yearn.

      But when our trembling kisses dare, yet dread,

      Even to draw nigh its head,

      And touch, and scarce with touch or breath surprise

      Its mild miraculous eyes

      Out of their viewless vision—O, what then,

      What may be said of men?

      What speech may name a new-born child? what word

      Earth ever spake or heard?

      The best men’s tongue that ever glory knew

      Called that a drop of dew

      Which from the breathing creature’s kindly womb

      Came forth in blameless bloom.

      We have no word, as had those men most high,

      To call a baby by.

      Rose, ruby, lily, pearl of stormless seas—

      A better word than these,

      Hush! for the holiest thing that lives is here

      A better sign it was than flower or gem

      That love revealed to them:

      They knew that whence comes light or quickening

      Thence only this thing came,       [flame,

      And only might be likened of our love

      To somewhat born above,

      Not even to sweetest things dropped else on earth,

      Only to dew’s own birth.

      Nor doubt we but their sense was heavenly true,

      Babe, when we gaze on you,

      A dewdrop out of heaven whose colours are

      More bright than sun or star,

      As now, ere watching love dare fear or hope,

      Lips, hands, and eyelids ope,

      And all your life is mixed with earthly leaven.

      O child, what news from heaven?

      A Birth-Song

      OUT of the dark sweet sleep

      Where no dreams laugh or weep

      Borne through bright gates of birth

      Into the dim sweet light

      Where day still dreams of night

      While heaven takes form on earth.

      White rose of spirit and flesh, red lily of love,

      What note of song have we

      Fit for the birds and thee,

      Fair nestling couched beneath the mother-dove?

      Nay, in some more divine

      Small speechless song of thine

      Some news too good for words,

      Heart-hushed and smiling, we

      Might hope to have of thee.

      The youngest of God’s birds,

      If thy sweet sense might mix itself with ours,

      If ours might understand

      The language of thy land,

      Ere thine become the tongue of mortal hours:

      Ere thy lips learn too soon

      Their soft first human tune,

      Sweet, but less sweet than now,

      And thy raised eyes to read

      Glad and good things indeed,

      But none so sweet as thou:

      Ere thought lift up their flower-soft lids to see

      What life and love on earth

      Bring thee for gifts at birth,

      But none so good as thine who hast given us thee;

      Now, ere thy sense forget

      The heaven that fills it yet,

      Now, sleeping or awake,

      If thou couldst tell, or we

      Ask and be heard of thee,

      For love’s undying sake,

      From thy dumb lips divine and bright mute speech

      Such news might

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