The Recently Discovered Lost Section of Algernon Charles Swinburne’s “Étude Réaliste”

A baby's cheeks, creamy and soft,
      Would tempt the angel who seeks
To touch a heaven 'neath her loft—
         A baby's cheeks.

A plumpness puffs the chubby peaks
      Where roses bloom as oft
As streak their slopes with runny creeks.

Kissing the cheeks with peach-fuzz puffed
      That near speech with the weeks
Will send the spirit's soar aloft
         A baby's cheeks.

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Étude Réaliste by Algernon Charles Swinburne 1837-1909

I.
A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink,
      Might tempt, should heaven see meet,
An angel's lips to kiss, we think,
         A baby's feet.

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat
      They stretch and spread and wink
Their ten soft buds that part and meet.

No flower-bells that expand and shrink
      Gleam half so heavenly sweet
As shine on life's untrodden brink
         A Baby's feet.

II.
A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled
      Whence yet no leaf expands,
Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,
         A baby's hands.

Then, fast as warriors grip their brands
      When battle's bolt is hurled,
They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.

No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled
      Match, even in loveliest lands,
The sweetest flowers in all the world—
         A baby's hands.

III.
A baby's eyes, ere speech begin,
      Ere lips learn words or sighs,
Bless all things bright enough to win
         A baby's eyes.

Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies,
      And sleep flows out and in,
Sees perfect in them Paradise.

Their glance might cast out pain and sin,
      Their speech make dumb the wise,
By mute glad godhead felt within
         A baby's eyes.

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Monolith

Though wondrous are the monuments of stone
That yet enjoy the splendor of a prime
Lasting for ages—spanning lengths of time
Wherein were seeded, birthed, and fully grown
Great nations, cultures long since buried, gone—
And stand them still (sides slanted as a rhyme)
In total rapture when the arid clime
Around them swirls a storm of dust hard-blown,
When these have worn to so much desert sand
The greatest of Man’s achievements will be extinct,
Not because these will henceforth cease to stand,
But since the kosmos will have forgotten the tinct
And brittle leaves with hieroglyphics inked,—
The works that Beethoven scribbled out by hand.

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To Every Beamish Child

The day began at 6 PM;
   At 6 PM it ends.
At 6 PM a cherry brehm 
   Will puff with harey friends.
O frabjous day!  Callooh!  Callay!
   I chortle in my joy!
A madly glad Mad Hatter Day
   To every girl and boy!

At 6 PM I drank some tea;
   At 6 PM drank more.
At 6 PM the Tumtum tree
   I smoked, then went to snore.
O frabjous day!  Callooh!  Callay!
   I urkel loud and wild!
A madly glad Mad Hatter Day
   To every beamish child!

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A Suite in Honor of National Coffee Day

TO MY CUP OF COFFEE

Hazy and lazy…slow of registry…
Yawning and looking round me in a fog…
All the day long a traffic jam-like clog
Of thoughts congealed and thick and movement-free…
Were you not there each dawn to liven me—
To perk my senses, set my mind a-jog,
And give my sluggishness the whip and flog—
This jello-minded zombie would I be!
And afternoons I’d feel a lethargy:
I’d faintly flag, and laggardly I’d slog
And trudge and drudge and grope through sludge and grog
Were you not there to fill me with esprit.
You turn me on and leave me all agog!
You are my princess: Kiss me! I’m your frog!


ARISE AND SHINE

I've heard it said
To quicken the dead
A voodoo rite perform.
But hear me well:
You need no spell
The dead to wake and warm.

You need but take
A coffee break
And wet a corpse's lips
With drops of Joe
Until it show
A thirst for little sips.


A DRINKING SONG

I need it when I wake at dawn
And when I wake at noon;
I need it when I wake and yawn
Beneath a silver moon.

And then my thirst cannot be slaked:
I drink a couple pots,
(Or more if when I waked I baked
And downed a couple shots.)

And never dare you give to me
A cup of voltless Joe!
You'll quake with fear to watch and see
The hissy-fit I'll throw!

Coffee, I say! Give me a cup!
And fill it to the brim!
Give me a cup! I'll drink it up
With vigor, verve, and vim!


CAFFEINE

To get to baseline I need a drug
Delivered to me in an oversized mug;
And if I need it, and I can't get it,
Holy mother of hell, I regret it!


TEA FOR TWO

If you desire some stimulation
I'll brew you a cup of tea;
And if you desire some relaxation
I'll make it caffeine-free.

But spiked or not,—black, green, or Grey,—
No matter how it's took,—
Tea's best enjoyed on a rainy day
In a threesome with a book.

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Pavan Dolorosa

Upright, aristocratically
   The ladie sits before the keys.
Her quiet posture doth belie
   Her fingers busy activities.

They mix in mingling counterpoint,
   With wealthy harmonie they disport,
They daunce with skill in evry joynt,
   And doe with heauen's host consort.

And Master Philips I wo'd sweare
   His sad pavan had neuer play'd
Better then plays the ladie there,
   Sith sweeter music ne'er was made.

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