IN a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,
At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee,
Walled round with rocks as an inland island,
The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
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The whole poem is incredible. Like Wordsworth, Swinburne lost his genius badly with older age, but this 'still ahead of its time' piece of gorgeously formalised deathwish remains one of my favourite and most often self-quoted poems.