The Angel in the House. Coventry Patmore

      Boon Nature to the woman bows;

         She walks in earth’s whole glory clad,

      And, chiefest far herself of shows,

         All others help her, and are glad:

      No splendour ’neath the sky’s proud dome

         But serves for her familiar wear;

      The far-fetch’d diamond finds its home

         Flashing and smouldering in her hair;

      For her the seas their pearls reveal;

         Art and strange lands her pomp supply

      With purple, chrome, and cochineal,

         Ochre, and lapis lazuli;

      The worm its golden woof presents;

         Whatever runs, flies, dives, or delves,

      All doff for her their ornaments,

         Which suit her better than themselves;

      And all, by this their power to give,

         Proving her right to take, proclaim

      Her beauty’s clear prerogative

         To profit so by Eden’s blame.

      That nothing here may want its praise,

         Know, she who in her dress reveals

      A fine and modest taste, displays

         More loveliness than she conceals.

      ‘By meekness charm’d, or proud to allow

         A queenly claim to live admired,

      Full many a lady has ere now

         My apprehensive fancy fired,

      And woven many a transient chain;

         But never lady like to this,

      Who holds me as the weather-vane

         Is held by yonder clematis.

      She seems the life of nature’s powers;

         Her beauty is the genial thought

      Which makes the sunshine bright; the flowers,

         But for their hint of her, were nought.’

      A voice, the sweeter for the grace

         Of suddenness, while thus I dream’d,

      ‘Good morning!’ said or sang.  Her face

         The mirror of the morning seem’d.

      Her sisters in the garden walk’d,

         And would I come?  Across the Hall

      She led me; and we laugh’d and talk’d,

         And praised the Flower-show and the Ball;

      And Mildred’s pinks had gain’d the Prize;

         And, stepping like the light-foot fawn,

      She brought me ‘Wiltshire Butterflies,’

         The Prize-book; then we paced the lawn,

      Close-cut, and with geranium-plots,

         A rival glow of green and red;

      Than counted sixty apricots

         On one small tree; the gold-fish fed;

      And watch’d where, black with scarlet tans,

         Proud Psyche stood and flash’d like flame,

      Showing and shutting splendid fans;

         And in the prize we found its name.

      The sweet hour lapsed, and left my breast

         A load of joy and tender care;

      And this delight, which life oppress’d,

         To fix’d aims grew, that ask’d for pray’r.

      I rode home slowly; whip-in-hand

         And soil’d bank-notes all ready, stood

      The Farmer who farm’d all my land,

         Except the little Park and Wood;

      And with the accustom’d compliment

         Of talk, and beef, and frothing beer,

      I, my own steward, took my rent,

         Three hundred pounds for half the year;

      Our witnesses the Cook and Groom,

         We sign’d the lease for seven years more,

      And bade Good-day; then to my room

         I went, and closed and lock’d the door,

      And cast myself down on my bed,

         And there, with many a blissful tear,

      I vow’d to love and pray’d to wed

         The maiden who had grown so dear;

      Thank’d God who had set her in my path;

         And promised, as I hoped to win,

      That I would never dim my faith

         By the least selfishness or sin;

      Whatever in her sight I’d seem

         I’d truly be; I’d never blend

      With my delight in her a dream

         ’Twould change her cheek to comprehend;

      And, if she wish’d it, I’d prefer

         Another’s to my own success;

      And always seek the best for her

         With unofficious tenderness.

      Rising, I breathed a brighter clime,

         And found myself all self above,

      And, with a charity sublime,

         Contemn’d not those who did not love:

      And I could not but feel that then

         I shone with something of her grace,

      And went forth to my fellow men

         My commendation in my face.

      Where she succeeds with cloudless brow,

         In common and in holy course,

      He fails, in spite of prayer and vow

         And agonies of faith and force;

      Or, if his suit with Heaven