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Soar, as a bird soars Newly fledged, her visibile song, a marvel, Made of perfect sound and exceeding passion, Sweetly shapen, terrible, full of thunders, Clothed with the wind’s wings. Algernon Charles Swinburne, Sapphics accarezza l’arpa con le pallide...

… fallen leaves like scraps of written words in the breeze, whilst nether gates yawn within deep dark Trivia’s groves, hard by clear cold springs flowing out from mossy rifts as riddles uttered by voices mortal no more, and silver shapes seen in mirrors...

… whilst her eye’s dark shades and her lips and her swollen berries and the flaws which marks her pale perfection are kissed gently her lingering panting is music and the waves of her rapture are crashing and frothing on the shores of his hands and their...

I own many books which bear traces of their former owners and most dearly loved by me are those traces which seems to be, or obviously are, inscribed by a lover to his, or her, beloved. In my very good copy of Swinburne’s Poems—one volume of an undated...

… quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante … in a throbbing pale blue mist which wax he follows her wavings and reads aloud of a Nymph, Queen of the Western Island which weaves and cut the thread and all along she strokes like wind on grassy mounds and...

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