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Coventry Patmore - The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto XI.Coventry Patmore - The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto XI.
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Preludes. I The Daughter of Eve               The woman`s gentle mood o`erstept               Withers my love, that lightly scans               The rest, and does in her accept               All her own faults, but none of man`s.               As man I cannot judge her ill,               Or honour her fair station less,               Who, with a woman`s errors, still               Preserves a woman`s gentleness;               For thus I think, if one I see               Who disappoints my high desire,               ‘How admirable would she be,               ‘Could she but know how I admire!’               Or fail she, though from blemish clear,               To charm, I call it my defect;               And so my thought, with reverent fear               To err by doltish disrespect,               Imputes love`s great regard, and says,               ‘Though unapparent `tis to me,               ‘Be sure this Queen some other sways               ‘With well-perceiv`d supremacy.’                  Behold the worst! Light from above               On the blank ruin writes ‘Forbear!               ‘Her first crime was unguarded love,               ‘And all the rest, perhaps, despair.’               Discrown`d, dejected, but not lost,               O, sad one, with no more a name               Or place in all the honour`d host               Of maiden and of matron fame,               Grieve on; but, if thou grievest right,               `Tis not that these abhor thy state,               Nor would`st thou lower the least the height               Which makes thy casting down so great.               Good is thy lot in its degree;               For hearts that verily repent               Are burden`d with impunity               And comforted by chastisement.               Sweet patience sanctify thy woes!               And doubt not but our God is just,               Albeit unscathed thy traitor goes,               And thou art stricken to the dust.               That penalty`s the best to bear               Which follows soonest on the sin;               And guilt`s a game where losers fare               Better than those who seem to win. II Aurea Dicta               `Tis truth (although this truth`s a star               Too deep-enskied for all to see),               As poets of grammar, lovers are               The fountains of morality.               Child, would you shun the vulgar doom,               In love disgust, in death despair?               Know, death must come and love must come,               And so for each your soul prepare.                  Who pleasure follows pleasure slays;               God`s wrath upon himself he wreaks;               But all delights rejoice his days               Who takes with thanks, and never seeks.               The wrong is made and measured by               The right`s inverted dignity.               Change love to shame, as love is high               So low in hell your bed shall be.               How easy to keep free from sin!               How hard that freedom to recall!               For dreadful truth it is that men               Forget the heavens from which they fall.               Lest sacred love your soul ensnare,               With pious fancy still infer               ‘How loving and how lovely fair               ‘Must He be who has fashion`d her!’               Become whatever good you see,               Nor sigh if, forthwith, fades from view               The grace of which you may not be               The subject and spectator too.               Love`s perfect blossom only blows               Where noble manners veil defect.               Angels may be familiar; those               Who err each other must respect.               Love blabb`d of is a great decline;               A careless word unsanctions sense;               But he who casts Heaven`s truth to swine               Consummates all incontinence.               Not to unveil before the gaze               Of an imperfect sympathy               In aught we are, is the sweet praise               And the main sum of modesty. The Dance.  I               ‘My memory of Heaven awakes!               ‘She`s not of the earth, although her light,               ‘As lantern`d by her body, makes               ‘A piece of it past bearing bright.               ‘So innocently proud and fair               ‘She is, that Wisdom sings for glee               ‘And Folly dies, breathing one air               ‘With such a bright-cheek`d chastity;               ‘And though her charms are a strong law               ‘Compelling all men to admire,               ‘They go so clad with lovely awe               ‘None but the noble dares desire.               ‘He who would seek to make her his               ‘Will comprehend that souls of grace               ‘Own sweet repulsion, and that `tis                 ‘The quality of their embrace                 ‘To be like the majestic reach                 ‘Of coupled suns, that, from afar,                 ‘Mingle their mutual spheres, while each                 ‘Circles the twin obsequious star;                 ‘And, in the warmth of hand to hand,                 ‘Of heart to heart, he`ll vow to note                 ‘And reverently understand                 ‘How the two spirits shine remote;                 ‘And ne`er to numb fine honour`s nerve,                 ‘Nor let sweet awe in passion melt,                 ‘Nor fail by courtesies to observe                 ‘The space which makes attraction felt;                 ‘Nor cease to guard like life the sense                 ‘Which tells him that the embrace of love                    ‘Is o`er a gulf of difference                 ‘Love cannot sound, nor death remove.’ II                 This learn`d I, watching where she danced,                 Native to melody and light,                 And now and then toward me glanced,                 Pleased, as I hoped, to please my sight. III                 Ah, love to speak was impotent,                 Till music did a tongue confer,                 And I ne`er knew what music meant,                 Until I danced to it with her.                 Too proud of the sustaining power                 Of my, till then, unblemish`d joy,                 My passion, for reproof, that hour                 Tasted mortality`s alloy,                 And bore me down an eddying gulf;                 I wish`d the world might run to wreck,                 So I but once might fling myself                 Obliviously about her neck.                 I press`d her hand, by will or chance                 I know not, but I saw the rays                 Withdrawn, which did till then enhance                 Her fairness with its thanks for praise.                 I knew my spirit`s vague offence                 Was patent to the dreaming eye                 And heavenly tact of innocence,                 And did for fear my fear defy,                 And ask`d her for the next dance. ‘Yes.’                 ‘No,’ had not fall`n with half the force.                 She was fulfill`d with gentleness,                 And I with measureless remorse;                 And, ere I slept, on bended knee                 I own`d myself, with many a tear,                    Unseasonable, disorderly,                 And a deranger of love`s sphere;                 Gave thanks that, when we stumble and fall,                 We hurt ourselves, and not the truth;                 And, rising, found its brightness all                 The brighter through the tears of ruth. IV                 Nor was my hope that night made less,                 Though order`d, humbled, and reproved;                 Her farewell did her heart express                 As much, but not with anger, moved.                 My trouble had my soul betray`d;                 And, in the night of my despair,                 My love, a flower of noon afraid,                 Divulged its fulness unaware.                 I saw she saw; and, O sweet Heaven,                 Could my glad mind have credited                 That influence had to me been given                 To affect her so, I should have said                 That, though she from herself conceal`d                 Love`s felt delight and fancied harm,                 They made her face the jousting field                 Of joy and beautiful alarm.
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