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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=359162" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto X.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Preludes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I The Joyful Wisdom <br>Would Wisdom for herself be woo'd,<br>And wake the foolish from his dream,<br>She must be glad as well as good,<br>And must not only be, but seem.<br>Beauty and joy are hers by right;<br>And, knowing this, I wonder less<br>That she's so scorn'd, when falsely dight<br>In misery and ugliness.<br>What's that which Heaven to man endears,<br>And that which eyes no sooner see<br>Than the heart says, with floods of tears,<br>‘Ah, that's the thing which I would be!’<br>Not childhood, full of frown and fret;<br>Not youth, impatient to disown<br>Those visions high, which to forget<br>Were worse than never to have known;<br>Not worldlings, in whose fair outside<br>Nor courtesy nor justice fails,<br>Thanks to cross-pulling vices tied,<br>Like Samson's foxes, by the tails; <br>Not poets; real things are dreams,<br>When dreams are as realities,<br>And boasters of celestial gleams<br>Go stumbling aye for want of eyes;<br>Not patriots nor people's men,<br>In whom two worse-match'd evils meet<br>Than ever sought Adullam's den,<br>Base conscience and a high conceit;<br>Not new-made saints, their feelings iced,<br>Their joy in man and nature gone,<br>Who sing ‘O easy yoke of Christ!’<br>But find 'tis hard to get it on;<br>Not great men, even when they're good;<br>The good man whom the time makes great,<br>By some disgrace of chance or blood,<br>God fails not to humiliate;<br>Not these: but souls, found here and there,<br>Oases in our waste of sin,<br>Where everything is well and fair,<br>And Heav'n remits its discipline;<br>Whose sweet subdual of the world<br>The worldling scarce can recognise,<br>And ridicule, against it hurl'd,<br>Drops with a broken sting and dies;<br>Who nobly, if they cannot know<br>Whether a 'scutcheon's dubious field<br>Carries a falcon or a crow,<br>Fancy a falcon on the shield;<br>Yet, ever careful not to hurt<br>God's honour, who creates success,<br>Their praise of even the best desert<br>Is but to have presumed no less;<br>Who, should their own life plaudits bring,<br>Are simply vex'd at heart that such<br>An easy, yea, delightful thing<br>Should move the minds of men so much. <br>They live by law, not like the fool,<br>But like the bard, who freely sings<br>In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule,<br>And finds in them, not bonds, but wings.<br>Postponing still their private ease<br>To courtly custom, appetite,<br>Subjected to observances,<br>To banquet goes with full delight;<br>Nay, continence and gratitude<br>So cleanse their lives from earth's alloy,<br>They taste, in Nature's common food,<br>Nothing but spiritual joy.<br>They shine like Moses in the face,<br>And teach our hearts, without the rod,<br>That God's grace is the only grace,<br>And all grace is the grace of God.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II The Devices <br>Love, kiss'd by Wisdom, wakes twice Love,<br>And Wisdom is, thro' loving, wise.<br>Let Dove and Snake, and Snake and Dove,<br>This Wisdom's be, that Love's device.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Going To Church.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I<br>I woke at three; for I was bid<br>To breakfast with the Dean at nine,<br>And thence to Church. My curtain slid,<br>I found the dawning Sunday fine;<br>And could not rest, so rose. The air<br>Was dark and sharp; the roosted birds <br>Cheep'd, ‘Here am I, Sweet; are you there?’<br>On Avon's misty flats the herds<br>Expected, comfortless, the day,<br>Which slowly fired the clouds above;<br>The cock scream'd, somewhere far away;<br>In sleep the matrimonial dove<br>Was crooning; no wind waked the wood,<br>Nor moved the midnight river-damps,<br>Nor thrill'd the poplar; quiet stood<br>The chestnut with its thousand lamps;<br>The moon shone yet, but weak and drear,<br>And seem'd to watch, with bated breath,<br>The landscape, all made sharp and clear<br>By stillness, as a face by death.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II<br>My pray'rs for her being done, I took<br>Occasion by the quiet hour<br>To find and know, by Rule and Book,<br>The rights of love's beloved power.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III<br>Fronting the question without ruth,<br>Nor ignorant that, evermore,<br>If men will stoop to kiss the Truth,<br>She lifts them higher than before,<br>I, from above, such light required<br>As now should once for all destroy<br>The folly which at times desired<br>A sanction for so great a joy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV<br>Thenceforth, and through that pray'r, I trod<br>A path with no suspicions dim.<br>I loved her in the name of God,<br>And for the ray she was of Him; <br>I ought to admire much more, not less;<br>Her beauty was a godly grace;<br>The mystery of loveliness,<br>Which made an altar of her face,<br>Was not of the flesh, though that was fair,<br>But a most pure and living light<br>Without a name, by which the rare<br>And virtuous spirit flamed to sight.<br>If oft, in love, effect lack'd cause<br>And cause effect, 'twere vain to soar<br>Reasons to seek for that which was<br>Reason itself, or something more.<br>My joy was no idolatry<br>Upon the ends of the vile earth bent,<br>For when I loved her most then I<br>Most yearn'd for more divine content.<br>That other doubt, which, like a ghost,<br>In the brain's darkness haunted me,<br>Was thus resolved: Him loved I most,<br>But her I loved most sensibly.<br>Lastly, my giddiest hope allow'd<br>No selfish thought, or earthly smirch;<br>And forth I went, in peace, and proud<br>To take my passion into Church;<br>Grateful and glad to think that all<br>Such doubts would seem entirely vain<br>To her whose nature's lighter fall<br>Made no divorce of heart from brain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V<br>I found them, with exactest grace<br>And fresh as Spring, for Spring attired;<br>And by the radiance in her face<br>I saw she felt she was admired;<br>And, through the common luck of love,<br>A moment's fortunate delay, <br>To fit the little lilac glove,<br>Gave me her arm; and I and they<br>(They true to this and every hour,<br>As if attended on by Time),<br>Enter'd the Church while yet the tower<br>Was noisy with the finish'd chime.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI<br>Her soft voice, singularly heard<br>Beside me, in her chant, withstood<br>The roar of voices, like a bird<br>Sole warbling in a windy wood;<br>And, when we knelt, she seem'd to be<br>An angel teaching me to pray;<br>And all through the high Liturgy<br>My spirit rejoiced without allay,<br>Being, for once, borne clearly above<br>All banks and bars of ignorance,<br>By this bright spring-tide of pure love<br>And floated in a free expanse,<br>Whence it could see from side to side,<br>The obscurity from every part<br>Winnow'd away and purified<br>By the vibrations of my heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Coventry+Patmore">Coventry Patmore</a><div class=q>
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I The Joyful Wisdom 
Would Wisdom for herself be woo'd,
And wake the foolish from his dream,
She must be glad as well as good,
And must not only be, but seem.
Beauty and joy are hers by right;
And, knowing this, I wonder less
That she's..."></div>
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