Kissing her hair I sat against her feet,
Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet;
Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes,
Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies;
With her own tresses bound and found her fair,
Kissing her hair.
Seep were no sweeter than her face to me,
Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea;
What pain could get between my face and hers?
What new sweet thing would love not relish worse?
Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there,
Kissing her hair?
Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)
Nog een gedicht van deze auteur is geplaatst op de
fin de siècle site All art is quite useless van Rond1900.nl.
Afbeelding: Algernon Charles Swinburne, geschilderd door William Bell Scott (1811-1890).