The Angel in the House. Coventry Patmore

      Whether this Cousin was the cause

         I know not, but I seem’d to see,

      The first time then, how fair she was,

         How much the fairest of the three.

      Each stopp’d to let the other go;

         But, time-bound, he arose the first.

      Stay’d he in Sarum long?  If so

         I hoped to see him at the Hurst.

      No: he had call’d 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 watch’d.  Her farewell show’d 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, long’d 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 that’s 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 increas’d.

      Not that I soar’d 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 sigh’d,

         ‘That I were worthy to desire!’

      As drowsiness my brain reliev’d,

         A shrill defiance of all to arms,

      Shriek’d by the stable-cock, receiv’d

         An angry answer from three farms.

      And, then, I dream’d that I, her knight,

         A clarion’s haughty pathos heard,

      And rode securely to the fight,

         Cased in the scarf she had conferr’d;

      And there, the bristling lists behind,

         Saw many, and vanquish’d all I saw

      Of her unnumber’d cousin-kind,

         In Navy, Army, Church, and Law;

      Smitten, the warriors somehow turn’d

         To Sarum choristers, whose song,

      Mix’d with celestial sorrow, yearn’d

         With joy no memory can prolong;

      And phantasms as absurd and sweet

         Merged each in each in endless chace,

      And everywhere I seem’d to meet

         The haunting fairness of her face.

      Lo, when the Lord made North and South

         And sun and moon ordained, He,

      Forthbringing each by word of mouth

         In order of its dignity,

      Did man from the crude clay express

         By sequence, and, all else decreed,

      He form’d the woman; nor might less

         Than Sabbath such a work succeed.

      And still with favour singled out,

         Marr’d less than man by mortal fall,

      Her disposition is devout,

         Her countenance angelical;

      The best things that the best believe

         Are in her face so kindly writ

      The faithless, seeing her, conceive

         Not only heaven, but hope of it;

      No idle thought her instinct shrouds,

         But fancy chequers settled sense,

      Like alteration of the clouds

         On noonday’s azure permanence;

      Pure dignity, composure, ease

         Declare affections nobly fix’d,

      And impulse sprung from due degrees

         Of sense and spirit sweetly mix’d.

      Her modesty, her chiefest grace,

         The cestus clasping Venus’ side,

      How potent to deject the face

         Of him who would affront its pride!

      Wrong dares not in her presence speak,

         Nor spotted thought its taint disclose

      Under the protest of a cheek

         Outbragging Nature’s boast the rose.

      In mind and manners how discreet;

         How artless in her very art;

      How candid in discourse; how sweet

         The concord of her lips and heart;

      How simple and how circumspect;

         How subtle and how fancy-free;

      Though