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Algernon Charles Swinburne - Armand Barbés
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Fire out of heaven, a flower of perfect fire,
   That where the roots of life are had its root
   And where the fruits of time are brought forth fruit;
A faith made flesh, a visible desire,
That heard the yet unbreathing years respire
   And speech break forth of centuries that sit mute
   Beyond all feebler footprint of pursuit;
That touched the highest of hope, and went up higher;
A heart love-wounded whereto love was law,
A soul reproachless without fear or flaw,
   A shining spirit without shadow of shame,
A memory made of all men`s love and awe;
   Being disembodied, so thou be the same,
   What need, O soul, to sign thee with thy name?

All woes of all men sat upon thy soul
   And all their wrongs were heavy on thy head;
   With all their wounds thy heart was pierced and bled,
And in thy spirit as in a mourning scroll
The world`s huge sorrows were inscribed by roll,
   All theirs on earth who serve and faint for bread,
   All banished men`s, all theirs in prison dead,
Thy love had heart and sword-hand for the whole.
"This was my day of glory," didst thou say,
When, by the scaffold thou hadst hope to climb
For thy faith`s sake, they brought thee respite; "Nay,
I shall not die then, I have missed my day."
   O hero, O our help, O head sublime,
   Thy day shall be commensurate with time.
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