Coventry Patmore - The Angel in the House стр 2.

When I behold the skies aloft
   Passing the pageantry of dreams,
The cloud whose bosom, cygnet-soft,
   A couch for nuptial Juno seems,
The ocean broad, the mountains bright,
   The shadowy vales with feeding herds,
I from my lyre the music smite,
   Nor want for justly matching words.
All forces of the sea and air,
   All interests of hill and plain,
I so can sing, in seasons fair,
   That who hath felt may feel again.
Elated oft by such free songs,
   I think with utterance free to raise
That hymn for which the whole world longs,
   A worthy hymn in womans praise;
A hymn bright-noted like a birds,
   Arousing these song-sleepy times
With rhapsodies of perfect words,
   Ruled by returning kiss of rhymes.
But when I look on her and hope
   To tell with joy what I admire,
My thoughts lie crampd in narrow scope,
   Or in the feeble birth expire;
No mystery of well-woven speech,
   No simplest phrase of tenderest fall,
No likend excellence can reach
   Her, thee most excellent of all,
The best half of creations best,
   Its heart to feel, its eye to see,
The crown and complex of the rest,
   Its aim and its epitome.
Nay, might I utter my conceit,
   Twere after all a vulgar song,
For shes so simply, subtly sweet,
   My deepest rapture does her wrong.
Yet is it now my chosen task
   To sing her worth as Maid and Wife;
Nor happier post than this I ask,
   To live her laureate all my life.
On wings of love uplifted free,
   And by her gentleness made great,
Ill teach how noble man should be
   To match with such a lovely mate;
And then in her may move the more
   The womans wish to be desired,
(By praise increased), till both shall soar,
   With blissful emulations fired.
And, as geranium, pink, or rose
   Is thrice itself through power of art,
So may my happy skill disclose
   New fairness even in her fair heart;
Until that churl shall nowhere be
   Who bends not, awed, before the throne
Of her affecting majesty,
   So meek, so far unlike our own;
Until (for who may hope too much
   From her who wields the powers of love?)
Our lifted lives at last shall touch
   That happy goal to which they move;
Until we find, as darkness rolls
   Away, and evil mists dissolve,
That nuptial contrasts are the poles
   On which the heavenly spheres revolve.

Wheneer I come where ladies are,
   How sad soever I was before,
Though like a ship frost-bound and far
   Withheld in ice from the oceans roar,
Third-winterd in that dreadful dock,
   With stiffend cordage, sails decayd,
And crew that care for calm and shock
   Alike, too dull to be dismayd,
Yet, if I come where ladies are,
   How sad soever I was before,
Then is my sadness banishd far,
   And I am like that ship no more;
Or like that ship if the ice-field splits,
   Burst by the sudden polar Spring,
And all thank God with their warming wits,
   And kiss each other and dance and sing,
And hoist fresh sails, that make the breeze
   Blow them along the liquid sea,
Out of the North, where life did freeze,
   Into the haven where they would be.

Anne lived so truly from above,
   She was so gentle and so good,
That duty bade me fall in love,
   And but for that, thought I, I should!
I worshippd Kate with all my will,
   In idle moods you seem to see
A noble spirit in a hill,
   A human touch about a tree.

The lack of lovely pride, in her
   Who strives to please, my pleasure numbs,
And still the maid I most prefer
   Whose care to please with pleasing comes.

One morning, after Church, I walkd
   Alone with Mary on the lawn,
And felt myself, howeer we talkd,
   To grave themes delicately drawn.
When she, delighted, found I knew
   More of her peace than she supposed,
Our confidences heavenwards grew,
   Like fox-glove buds, in pairs disclosed.
Our former faults did we confess,
   Our ancient feud was more than heald,
And, with the womans eagerness
   For amity full-signd and seald,
She, offering up for sacrifice
   Her hearts reserve, brought out to show
Some verses, made when she was ice
   To all but Heaven, six years ago;
Since happier grown!  I took and read
   The neat-writ lines.  She, void of guile,
Too late repenting, blushd, and said,
   I must not think about the style.

Day after day, until to-day,
   Imaged the others gone before,
The same dull task, the weary way,
   The weakness pardond oer and oer,
The thwarted thirst, too faintly felt,
   For joys well-nigh forgotten life,
The restless heart, which, when I knelt,
   Made of my worship barren strife.
Ah, whence to-days so sweet release,
   This clearance light of all my care,
This conscience free, this fertile peace,
   These softly folded wings of prayer,
This calm and more than conquering love,
   With which nought evil dares to cope,
This joy that lifts no glance above,
   For faith too sure, too sweet for hope?
O, happy time, too happy change,
   It will not live, though fondly nurst!
Full soon the sun will seem as strange
   As now the cloud which seems dispersed.

She from a rose-tree shook the blight;
   And well she knew that I knew well
Her grace with silence to requite;
   And, answering now the luncheon bell,
I laughd at Mildreds laugh, which made
   All melancholy wrong, its mood
Such sweet self-confidence displayd,
   So glad a sense of present good.

I laughd and sighd: for I confess
   I never went to Ball, or Fête,
Or Show, but in pursuit express
   Of my predestinated mate;
And thus to me, who had in sight
   The happy chance upon the cards,
Each beauty blossomd in the light
   Of tender personal regards;
And, in the records of my breast,
   Red-letterd, eminently fair,
Stood sixteen, who, beyond the rest,
   By turns till then had been my care:
At Berlin three, one at St. Cloud,
   At Chatteris, near Cambridge, one,
At Ely four, in London two,
   Two at Bowness, in Paris none,
And, last and best, in Sarum three;
   But dearest of the whole fair troop,
In judgment of the moment, she
   Whose daisy eyes had learnd to droop.
Her very faults my fancy fired;
   My loving will, so thwarted, grew;
And, bent on worship, I admired
   Whateer she was, with partial view.
And yet when, as to-day, her smile
   Was prettiest, I could not but note
Honoria, less admired the while,
   Was lovelier, though from love remote.