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Coventry Patmore - The Angel In The House. Book II. Canto III.
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Preludes

I Love Ceremonious 
              Keep your undrest, familiar style
              For strangers, but respect your friend,
              Her most, whose matrimonial smile
              Is and asks honour without end.
              `Tis found, and needs it must so be,
              That life from love`s allegiance flags,
              When love forgets his majesty
              In sloth`s unceremonious rags.
              Let love make home a gracious Court;
               There let the world`s rude, hasty ways
               Be fashion`d to a loftier port,
               And learn to bow and stand at gaze;
               And let the sweet respective sphere
               Of personal worship there obtain
               Circumference for moving clear,
               None treading on another`s train.
               This makes that pleasures do not cloy,
               And dignifies our mortal strife
               With calmness and considerate joy,
               Befitting our immortal life.

    
II The Rainbow 
               A stately rainbow came and stood,
               When I was young, in High-Hurst Park;
               Its bright feet lit the hill and wood
               Beyond, and cloud and sward were dark;
               And I, who thought the splendour ours
               Because the place was, t`wards it flew,
               And there, amidst the glittering showers,
               Gazed vainly for the glorious view.
               With whatsoever`s lovely, know
               It is not ours; stand off to see,
               Or beauty`s apparition so
               Puts on invisibility.

III A Paradox 
               To tryst Love blindfold goes, for fear
               He should not see, and eyeless night
               He chooses still for breathing near
               Beauty, that lives but in the sight.


The County Ball.

 I
               Well, Heaven be thank`d my first-love fail`d,
               As, Heaven be thank`d, our first-loves do!
               Thought I, when Fanny past me sail`d,
               Loved once, for what I never knew,    
               Unless for colouring in her talk,
               When cheeks and merry mouth would show
               Three roses on a single stalk,
               The middle wanting room to blow,
               And forward ways, that charm`d the boy
               Whose love-sick mind, misreading fate,
               Scarce hoped that any Queen of Joy
               Could ever stoop to be his mate.

 II
               But there danced she, who from the leaven
               Of ill preserv`d my heart and wit
               All unawares, for she was heaven,
               Others at best but fit for it.
               One of those lovely things she was
               In whose least action there can be
               Nothing so transient but it has
               An air of immortality.
               I mark`d her step, with peace elate,
               Her brow more beautiful than morn,
               Her sometime look of girlish state
               Which sweetly waived its right to scorn;
               The giddy crowd, she grave the while,
               Although, as `twere beyond her will,
               Around her mouth the baby smile,
               That she was born with, linger`d still.
               Her ball-dress seem`d a breathing mist,
               From the fair form exhaled and shed,
               Raised in the dance with arm and wrist
               All warmth and light, unbraceleted.
               Her motion, feeling `twas beloved,
               The pensive soul of tune express`d,
               And, oh, what perfume, as she moved,
               Came from the flowers in her breast!
               How sweet a tongue the music had!
               ‘Beautiful Girl,’ it seem`d to say,    
               ‘Though all the world were vile and sad,
               ‘Dance on; let innocence be gay.’
               Ah, none but I discern`d her looks,
               When in the throng she pass`d me by,
               For love is like a ghost, and brooks
               Only the chosen seer`s eye;
               And who but she could e`er divine
               The halo and the happy trance,
               When her bright arm reposed on mine,
               In all the pauses of the dance!

 III
               Whilst so her beauty fed my sight,
               And whilst I lived in what she said,
               Accordant airs, like all delight
               Most sweet when noted least, were play`d;
               And was it like the Pharisee
               If I in secret bow`d my face
               With joyful thanks that I should be,
               Not as were many, but with grace,
               And fortune of well-nurtured youth,
               And days no sordid pains defile,
               And thoughts accustom`d to the truth,
               Made capable of her fair smile?

 IV
               Charles Barton follow`d down the stair,
               To talk with me about the Ball,
               And carp at all the people there.
                The Churchills chiefly stirr`d his gall:
                ‘Such were the Kriemhilds and Isondes
                ‘You storm`d about at Trinity!
                ‘Nothing at heart but handsome Blondes!
                ‘Folk say that you and Fanny Fry—’
                ‘They err! Good-night! Here lies my course,
                ‘Through Wilton.’ Silence blest my ears,    
                And, weak at heart with vague remorse,
                A passing poignancy of tears
                Attack`d mine eyes. By pale and park
                I rode, and ever seem`d to see,
                In the transparent starry dark,
                That splendid brow of chastity,
                That soft and yet subduing light,
                At which, as at the sudden moon,
                I held my breath, and thought ‘how bright!’
                That guileless beauty in its noon,
                Compelling tribute of desires
                Ardent as day when Sirius reigns,
                Pure as the permeating fires
                That smoulder in the opal`s veins.
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