And now no sacred staff shall break in blossom,
No choral salutation lure to light
A spirit sick with perfume and sweet night
And love's tired eyes and hands and barren bosom.
There is no help for these things; none to mend
And none to mar; not all our songs, O friend,
Will make death clear or make life durable.
Howbeit with rose and ivy and wild vine
And with wild notes about this dust of thine
At least I fill the place where white dreams dwell
And wreathe an unseen shrine.
Ave Atque Vale: 16
Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Poem topics: death, friend, life, light, night, rose, sick, sweet, white, place, clear, spirit, dust, tired, thine, break, love, I love you, wild, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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