From the great and glorious British Isles we take the Poet’s Day tradition: Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.
This week’s Poet’s day is brought to you by the Victorian masochist and noted pervert, Algernon Charles Swinburne:
For winter’s rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
An alcoholic who was suspended from Oxford for publicly supporting the assassination of Napoleon III, standing at a whopping five feet tall, and possessing an enviable mop of red hair, Swinburne was thrice nominated for the Nobel prize for Literature. He relished recounting tales of his debauchery, although whether he was quite as naughty as he claimed is in doubt. Oscar Wilde once said he was “a braggart in matters of vice, who had done everything he could to convince his fellow citizens of his homosexuality and bestiality without being in the slightest degree a homosexual or a bestializer.” Raise your glasses today and salute a man who really liked to be whipped. Better him than I.