Share:
  Guess poet | Poets | Poets timeline | Isles | Contacts

Coventry Patmore - The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto VIII.Coventry Patmore - The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto VIII.
Work rating: Low


Preludes. I Life of Life               What`s that, which, ere I spake, was gone:               So joyful and intense a spark               That, whilst o`erhead the wonder shone,               The day, before but dull, grew dark?               I do not know; but this I know,               That, had the splendour lived a year,               The truth that I some heavenly show               Did see, could not be now more clear.               This know I too: might mortal breath               Express the passion then inspired,               Evil would die a natural death,               And nothing transient be desired;               And error from the soul would pass,               And leave the senses pure and strong               As sunbeams. But the best, alas,               Has neither memory nor tongue.     II The Revelation               An idle poet, here and there,               Looks round him; but, for all the rest,               The world, unfathomably fair,               Is duller than a witling`s jest.               Love wakes men, once a lifetime each;               They lift their heavy lids, and look;               And, lo, what one sweet page can teach,               They read with joy, then shut the book.               And some give thanks, and some blaspheme               And most forget; but, either way,               That and the Child`s unheeded dream               Is all the light of all their day. III The Spirit`s Epochs               Not in the crises of events,               Of compass`d hopes, or fears fulfill`d,               Or acts of gravest consequence,               Are life`s delight and depth reveal`d.               The day of days was not the day;               That went before, or was postponed;               The night Death took our lamp away               Was not the night on which we groan`d.               I drew my bride, beneath the moon,               Across my threshold; happy hour!               But, ah, the walk that afternoon               We saw the water-flags in flower!     IV The Prototype               Lo, there, whence love, life, light are pour`d,               Veil`d with impenetrable rays,               Amidst the presence of the Lord               Co-equal Wisdom laughs and plays.               Female and male God made the man;               His image is the whole, not half;               And in our love we dimly scan               The love which is between Himself. V The Praise of Love               Spirit of Knowledge, grant me this:               A simple heart and subtle wit               To praise the thing whose praise it is               That all which can be praised is it. Sarum Plain. I               Breakfast enjoy`d, `mid hush of boughs               And perfumes thro` the windows blown;               Brief worship done, which still endows               The day with beauty not its own;               With intervening pause, that paints               Each act with honour, life with calm               (As old processions of the Saints               At every step have wands of palm),                  We rose; the ladies went to dress,               And soon return`d with smiles; and then,               Plans fix`d, to which the Dean said ‘Yes,’               Once more we drove to Salisbury Plain.               We past my house (observed with praise               By Mildred, Mary acquiesced),               And left the old and lazy grays               Below the hill, and walk`d the rest. II               The moods of love are like the wind,               And none knows whence or why they rise:               I ne`er before felt heart and mind               So much affected through mine eyes.               How cognate with the flatter`d air,               How form`d for earth`s familiar zone,               She moved; how feeling and how fair               For others` pleasure and her own!               And, ah, the heaven of her face!               How, when she laugh`d, I seem`d to see               The gladness of the primal grace,               And how, when grave, its dignity!               Of all she was, the least not less               Delighted the devoted eye;               No fold or fashion of her dress               Her fairness did not sanctify.               I could not else than grieve. What cause?               Was I not blest? Was she not there?               Likely my own? Ah, that it was:               How like seem`d ‘likely’ to despair! III               And yet to see her so benign,               So honourable and womanly,               In every maiden kindness mine,               And full of gayest courtesy,                  Was pleasure so without alloy,               Such unreproved, sufficient bliss,               I almost wish`d, the while, that joy               Might never further go than this.               So much it was as now to walk,               And humbly by her gentle side               Observe her smile and hear her talk,                 Could it be more to call her Bride?                 I feign`d her won; the mind finite,                 Puzzled and fagg`d by stress and strain                 To comprehend the whole delight,                 Made bliss more hard to bear than pain.                 All good, save heart to hold, so summ`d                 And grasp`d, the thought smote, like a knife,                 How laps`d mortality had numb`d                 The feelings to the feast of life;                 How passing good breathes sweetest breath;                 And love itself at highest reveals                 More black than bright, commending death                 By teaching how much life conceals. IV                 But happier passions these subdued,                 When from the close and sultry lane,                 With eyes made bright by what they view`d,                 We emerged upon the mounded Plain.                 As to the breeze a flag unfurls,                 My spirit expanded, sweetly embraced                 By those same gusts that shook her curls                 And vex`d the ribbon at her waist.                 To the future cast I future cares;                 Breathed with a heart unfreighted, free,                 And laugh`d at the presumptuous airs                 That with her muslins folded me;                 Till, one vague rack along my sky,                 The thought that she might ne`er be mine                    Lay half forgotten by the eye                 So feasted with the sun`s warm shine. V                 By the great stones we chose our ground                 For shade; and there, in converse sweet,                 Took luncheon. On a little mound                 Sat the three ladies; at their feet                 I sat; and smelt the heathy smell,                 Pluck`d harebells, turn`d the telescope                 To the country round. My life went well,                 For once, without the wheels of hope;                 And I despised the Druid rocks                 That scowl`d their chill gloom from above,                 Like churls whose stolid wisdom mocks                 The lightness of immortal love.                 And, as we talk`d, my spirit quaff`d                 The sparkling winds; the candid skies                 At our untruthful strangeness laugh`d;                 I kiss`d with mine her smiling eyes;                 And sweet familiarness and awe                 Prevail`d that hour on either part,                 And in the eternal light I saw                 That she was mine; though yet my heart                 Could not conceive, nor would confess                 Such contentation; and there grew                 More form and more fair stateliness                 Than heretofore between us two.
Source

The script ran 0.003 seconds.