The Angel in the House. Coventry Patmore

      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 woman’s praise;

      A hymn bright-noted like a bird’s,

         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 cramp’d in narrow scope,

         Or in the feeble birth expire;

      No mystery of well-woven speech,

         No simplest phrase of tenderest fall,

      No liken’d excellence can reach

         Her, thee most excellent of all,

      The best half of creation’s 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 she’s 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,

      I’ll teach how noble man should be

         To match with such a lovely mate;

      And then in her may move the more

         The woman’s 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.

      Whene’er I come where ladies are,

         How sad soever I was before,

      Though like a ship frost-bound and far

         Withheld in ice from the ocean’s roar,

      Third-winter’d in that dreadful dock,

         With stiffen’d cordage, sails decay’d,

      And crew that care for calm and shock

         Alike, too dull to be dismay’d,

      Yet, if I come where ladies are,

         How sad soever I was before,

      Then is my sadness banish’d 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 worshipp’d 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 walk’d

         Alone with Mary on the lawn,

      And felt myself, howe’er we talk’d,

         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 heal’d,

      And, with the woman’s eagerness

         For amity full-sign’d and seal’d,

      She, offering up for sacrifice

         Her heart’s 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, blush’d, and said,

         I must not think about the style.

      ‘Day