Coventry Patmore - The Angel in the House стр 3.

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.

He meets, by heavenly chance express,
   The destined maid; some hidden hand
Unveils to him that loveliness
   Which others cannot understand.
His merits in her presence grow,
   To match the promise in her eyes,
And round her happy footsteps blow
   The authentic airs of Paradise.
For joy of her he cannot sleep;
   Her beauty haunts him all the night;
It melts his heart, it makes him weep
   For wonder, worship, and delight.
O, paradox of love, he longs,
   Most humble when he most aspires,
To suffer scorn and cruel wrongs
   From her he honours and desires.
Her graces make him rich, and ask
   No guerdon; this imperial style
Affronts him; he disdains to bask,
   The pensioner of her priceless smile.
He prays for some hard thing to do,
   Some work of fame and labour immense,
To stretch the languid bulk and thew
   Of loves fresh-born magnipotence.
No smallest boon were bought too dear,
   Though barterd for his love-sick life;
Yet trusts he, with undaunted cheer,
   To vanquish heaven, and call her Wife
He notes how queens of sweetness still
   Neglect their crowns, and stoop to mate;
How, self-consignd with lavish will,
   They ask but love proportionate;
How swift pursuit by small degrees,
   Loves tactic, works like miracle;
How valour, clothed in courtesies,
   Brings down the haughtiest citadel;
And therefore, though he merits not
   To kiss the braid upon her skirt,
His hope, discouraged neer a jot,
   Out-soars all possible desert.

Strong passions mean weak will, and he
   Who truly knows the strength and bliss
Which are in love, will own with me
   No passion but a virtue tis.
Few hear my word; it soars above
   The subtlest senses of the swarm
Of wretched things which know not love,
   Their Psyche still a wingless worm.
Ice-cold seems heavens noble glow
   To spirits whose vital heat is hell;
And to corrupt hearts even so
   The songs I sing, the tale I tell.
These cannot see the robes of white
   In which I sing of love.  Alack,
But darkness shows in heavenly light,
   Though whiteness, in the dark, is black!

You love?  Thats high as you shall go;
   For tis as true as Gospel text,
Not noble then is never so,
   Either in this world or the next.

Grown weary with a weeks exile
   From those fair friends, I rode to see
The church-restorings; lounged awhile,
   And met the Dean; was askd to tea,
And found their cousin, Frederick Graham
   At Honors side.  Was I concernd,
If, when she sang, his colour came,
   That mine, as with a buffet, burnd?
A man to please a girl! thought I,
   Retorting his forced smiles, the shrouds
Of wrath, so hid as she was by,
   Sweet moon between her lighted clouds!

Whether this Cousin was the cause
   I know not, but I seemd to see,
The first time then, how fair she was,
   How much the fairest of the three.
Each stoppd to let the other go;
   But, time-bound, he arose the first.
Stayd he in Sarum long?  If so
   I hoped to see him at the Hurst.
No: he had calld here, on his way
   To Portsmouth, where the Arrogant,
His ship, was; he should leave next day,
   For two years cruise in the Levant.

Had love in her yet struck its germs?
   I watchd.  Her farewell showd me plain
She loved, on the majestic terms
   That she should not be loved again;
And so her cousin, parting, felt.
   Hope in his voice and eye was dead.
Compassion did my malice melt;
   Then went I home to a restless bed.
I, who admired her too, could see
   His infinite remorse at this
Great mystery, that she should be
   So beautiful, yet not be his,
And, pitying, longd to plead his part;
   But scarce could tell, so strange my whim,
Whether the weight upon my heart
   Was sorrow for myself or him.

She was all mildness; yet twas writ
   In all her grace, most legibly,
He thats for heaven itself unfit,
   Let him not hope to merit me.
And such a challenge, quite apart
   From thoughts of love, humbled, and thus
To sweet repentance moved my heart,
   And made me more magnanimous,
And led me to review my life,
   Inquiring where in aught the least,
If question were of her for wife,
   Ill might be mended, hope increasd.
Not that I soard so far above
   Myself, as this great hope to dare;
And yet I well foresaw that love
   Might hope where reason must despair;
And, half-resenting the sweet pride
   Which would not ask me to admire,
Oh, to my secret heart I sighd,
   That I were worthy to desire!

As drowsiness my brain relievd,
   A shrill defiance of all to arms,
Shriekd by the stable-cock, receivd
   An angry answer from three farms.
And, then, I dreamd that I, her knight,
   A clarions haughty pathos heard,
And rode securely to the fight,
   Cased in the scarf she had conferrd;
And there, the bristling lists behind,
   Saw many, and vanquishd all I saw
Of her unnumberd cousin-kind,
   In Navy, Army, Church, and Law;
Smitten, the warriors somehow turnd
   To Sarum choristers, whose song,
Mixd with celestial sorrow, yearnd
   With joy no memory can prolong;
And phantasms as absurd and sweet
   Merged each in each in endless chace,
And everywhere I seemd to meet
   The haunting fairness of her face.