A Clasp Of Hands , Born in London in 1837, Algernon Swinburne became one of the most well-known poets of the Victorian age, producing verse that often shocked and shook the morals of the conservative elite of the city. The oldest of 6 children in a wealthy family, he was sent to Eton to begin his studies where he discovered his love of poetry and began to write.
A Clasp Of Hands by Algernon Charles Swinburne
SOFT, small, and sweet as sunniest flowers
That bask in heavenly heat
When bud by bud breaks, breathes, and cowers,
Soft, small, and sweet.A babe’s hands open as to greet
The tender touch of ours
And mock with motion faint and fleetThe minutes of the new strange hours
That earth, not heaven, must mete;
Buds fragrant still from heaven’s own bowers,
Soft, small, and sweet.A velvet vice with springs of steel
That fasten in a trice
And clench the fingers fast that feel
A velvet viceÑWhat man would risk the danger twice,
Nor quake from head to heel?
That bask in heavenly heat
When bud by bud breaks, breathes, and cowers,
Soft, small, and sweet.A babe’s hands open as to greet
The tender touch of ours
And mock with motion faint and fleetThe minutes of the new strange hours
That earth, not heaven, must mete;
Buds fragrant still from heaven’s own bowers,
Soft, small, and sweet.A velvet vice with springs of steel
That fasten in a trice
And clench the fingers fast that feel
A velvet viceÑWhat man would risk the danger twice,
Nor quake from head to heel?
Whom would not one such test suffice?Well may we tremble as we kneel
In sight of Paradise,
If both a babe’s closed fists conceal
A velvet vice.Two flower-soft fists of conquering clutch,
Two creased and dimpled wrists,
That match, if mottled overmuch,
Two flower-soft fists—What heart of man dare hold the lists
Against such odds and such
Sweet vantage as no strength resists?Our strength is all a broken crutch,
Our eyes are dim with mists,
Our hearts are prisoners as we touch
Two flower-soft fists.
In sight of Paradise,
If both a babe’s closed fists conceal
A velvet vice.Two flower-soft fists of conquering clutch,
Two creased and dimpled wrists,
That match, if mottled overmuch,
Two flower-soft fists—What heart of man dare hold the lists
Against such odds and such
Sweet vantage as no strength resists?Our strength is all a broken crutch,
Our eyes are dim with mists,
Our hearts are prisoners as we touch
Two flower-soft fists.
