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Coventry Patmore - The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto V.Coventry Patmore - The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto V.
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Preludes. I The Comparison               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 prevails               To righteous life, his virtuous deeds               Lack beauty, virtue`s badge; she fails               More graciously than he succeeds.               Her spirit, compact of gentleness,               If Heaven postpones or grants her pray`r,               Conceives no pride in its success,               And in its failure no despair;               But his, enamour`d of its hurt,               Baffled, blasphemes, or, not denied,               Crows from the dunghill of desert,               And wags its ugly wings for pride.               He`s never young nor ripe; she grows               More infantine, auroral, mild,               And still the more she lives and knows               The lovelier she`s express`d a child.                  Say that she wants the will of man               To conquer fame, not check`d by cross,               Nor moved when others bless or ban;               She wants but what to have were loss.               Or say she wants the patient brain               To track shy truth; her facile wit               At that which he hunts down with pain               Flies straight, and does exactly hit.               Were she but half of what she is,               He twice himself, mere love alone,               Her special crown, as truth is his,               Gives title to the worthier throne;               For love is substance, truth the form;               Truth without love were less than nought;               But blindest love is sweet and warm,               And full of truth not shaped by thought;               And therefore in herself she stands               Adorn`d with undeficient grace,               Her happy virtues taking hands,               Each smiling in another`s face.               So, dancing round the Tree of Life,               They make an Eden in her breast,               While his, disjointed and at strife,               Proud-thoughted, do not bring him rest. II Love in Tears               If fate Love`s dear ambition mar,               And load his breast with hopeless pain,               And seem to blot out sun and star,               Love, won or lost, is countless gain;               His sorrow boasts a secret bliss               Which sorrow of itself beguiles,               And Love in tears too noble is               For pity, save of Love in smiles.                  But, looking backward through his tears,               With vision of maturer scope,               How often one dead joy appears               The platform of some better hope!               And, let us own, the sharpest smart               Which human patience may endure               Pays light for that which leaves the heart               More generous, dignified, and pure. III Prospective Faith               They safely walk in darkest ways               Whose youth is lighted from above,               Where, through the senses` silvery haze,               Dawns the veil`d moon of nuptial love.               Who is the happy husband? He               Who, scanning his unwedded life,               Thanks Heaven, with a conscience free,               `Twas faithful to his future wife. IV Venus Victrix               Fatal in force, yet gentle in will,               Defeats, from her, are tender pacts,               For, like the kindly lodestone, still               She`s drawn herself by what she attracts. The Violets.  I               I went not to the Dean`s unbid:               I would not have my mystery,               From her so delicately hid,               The guess of gossips at their tea.               A long, long week, and not once there,               Had made my spirit sick and faint,               And lack-love, foul as love is fair,               Perverted all things to complaint.               How vain the world had grown to be!               How mean all people and their ways,               How ignorant their sympathy,               And how impertinent their praise;               What they for virtuousness esteem`d,               How far removed from heavenly right;               What pettiness their trouble seem`d,               How undelightful their delight;               To my necessity how strange               The sunshine and the song of birds;               How dull the clouds` continual change,               How foolishly content the herds;               How unaccountable the law               Which bade me sit in blindness here,               While she, the sun by which I saw,               Shed splendour in an idle sphere!               And then I kiss`d her stolen glove,               And sigh`d to reckon and define               The modes of martyrdom in love,                 And how far each one might be mine.                 I thought how love, whose vast estate                 Is earth and air and sun and sea,                    Encounters oft the beggar`s fate,                 Despised on score of poverty;                 How Heaven, inscrutable in this,                 Lets the gross general make or mar                 The destiny of love, which is                 So tender and particular;                 How nature, as unnatural                 And contradicting nature`s source,                 Which is but love, seems most of all                 Well-pleased to harry true love`s course;                 How, many times, it comes to pass                 That trifling shades of temperament,                 Affecting only one, alas,                 Not love, but love`s success prevent;                 How manners often falsely paint                 The man; how passionate respect,                 Hid by itself, may bear the taint                 Of coldness and a dull neglect;                 And how a little outward dust                 Can a clear merit quite o`ercloud,                 And make her fatally unjust,                 And him desire a darker shroud;                 How senseless opportunity                 Gives baser men the better chance;                 How powers, adverse else, agree                 To cheat her in her ignorance;                 How Heaven its very self conspires                 With man and nature against love,                 As pleased to couple cross desires,                 And cross where they themselves approve.                 Wretched were life, if the end were now!                 But this gives tears to dry despair,                 Faith shall be blest, we know not how,                 And love fulfilled, we know not where.     II                 While thus I grieved, and kiss`d her glove,                 My man brought in her note to say,                 Papa had bid her send his love,                 And would I dine with them next day?                 They had learn`d and practised Purcell`s glee,                 To sing it by to-morrow night.                 The Postscript was: Her sisters and she                 Inclosed some violets, blue and white;                 She and her sisters found them where                 I wager`d once no violets grew;                 So they had won the gloves. And there                 The violets lay, two white, one blue.
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