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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=359164" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto XII.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Preludes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I The Chace <br>She wearies with an ill unknown;<br>In sleep she sobs and seems to float,<br>A water-lily, all alone<br>Within a lonely castle-moat;<br>And as the full-moon, spectral, lies<br>Within the crescent's gleaming arms,<br>The present shows her heedless eyes<br>A future dim with vague alarms.<br>She sees, and yet she scarcely sees,<br>For, life-in-life not yet begun,<br>Too many are its mysteries<br>For thought to fix on any one.<br>She's told that maidens are by youths<br>Extremely honour'd and desired;<br>And sighs, ‘If those sweet tales be truths,<br>‘What bliss to be so much admired!’<br>The suitors come; she sees them grieve;<br>Her coldness fills them with despair;<br>She'd pity if she could believe;<br>She's sorry that she cannot care. <br>But who now meets her on her way?<br>Comes he as enemy or friend,<br>Or both? Her bosom seems to say,<br>He cannot pass, and there an end.<br>Whom does he love? Does he confer<br>His heart on worth that answers his?<br>Or is he come to worship her?<br>She fears, she hopes, she thinks he is!<br>Advancing stepless, quick, and still,<br>As in the grass a serpent glides,<br>He fascinates her fluttering will,<br>Then terrifies with dreadful strides.<br>At first, there's nothing to resist;<br>He fights with all the forms of peace;<br>He comes about her like a mist,<br>With subtle, swift, unseen increase;<br>And then, unlook'd for, strikes amain<br>Some stroke that frightens her to death,<br>And grows all harmlessness again,<br>Ere she can cry, or get her breath.<br>At times she stops, and stands at bay;<br>But he, in all more strong than she,<br>Subdues her with his pale dismay,<br>Or more admired audacity.<br>She plans some final, fatal blow,<br>But when she means with frowns to kill<br>He looks as if he loved her so,<br>She smiles to him against her will.<br>How sweetly he implies her praise!<br>His tender talk, his gentle tone,<br>The manly worship in his gaze,<br>They nearly made her heart his own.<br>With what an air he speaks her name;<br>His manner always recollects<br>Her sex, and still the woman's claim<br>Is taught its scope by his respects. <br>Her charms, perceived to prosper first<br>In his beloved advertencies,<br>When in her glass they are rehearsed,<br>Prove his most powerful allies.<br>Ah, whither shall a maiden flee,<br>When a bold youth so swift pursues,<br>And siege of tenderest courtesy,<br>With hope perseverant, still renews!<br>Why fly so fast? Her flatter'd breast<br>Thanks him who finds her fair and good;<br>She loves her fears; veil'd joys arrest<br>The foolish terrors of her blood.<br>By secret, sweet degrees, her heart,<br>Vanquish'd, takes warmth from his desire;<br>She makes it more, with hidden art,<br>And fuels love's late dreaded fire.<br>The generous credit he accords<br>To all the signs of good in her<br>Redeems itself; his praiseful words<br>The virtues they impute confer.<br>Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss,<br>She's three times gentler than before;<br>He gains a right to call her his<br>Now she through him is so much more;<br>'Tis heaven where'er she turns her head;<br>Tis music when she talks; 'tis air<br>On which, elate, she seems to tread,<br>The convert of a gladder sphere!<br>Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved,<br>Behold his tokens next her breast,<br>At all his words and sighs perceived<br>Against its blythe upheaval press'd!<br>But still she flies. Should she be won,<br>It must not be believed or thought<br>She yields; she's chased to death, undone,<br>Surprised, and violently caught.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>II Denied <br>The storm-cloud, whose portentous shade<br>Fumes from a core of smother'd fire,<br>His livery is whose worshipp'd maid<br>Denies herself to his desire.<br>Ah, grief that almost crushes life,<br>To lie upon his lonely bed,<br>And fancy her another's wife!<br>His brain is flame, his heart is lead.<br>Sinking at last, by nature's course,<br>Cloak'd round with sleep from his despair,<br>He does but sleep to gather force<br>That goes to his exhausted care.<br>He wakes renew'd for all the smart.<br>His only Love, and she is wed!<br>His fondness comes about his heart,<br>As milk comes, when the babe is dead.<br>The wretch, whom she found fit for scorn,<br>His own allegiant thoughts despise;<br>And far into the shining morn<br>Lazy with misery he lies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III The Churl <br>This marks the Churl: when spousals crown<br>His selfish hope, he finds the grace,<br>Which sweet love has for even the clown,<br>Was not in the woman, but the chace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Abdication. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I<br>From little signs, like little stars,<br>Whose faint impression on the sense<br>The very looking straight at mars,<br>Or only seen by confluence;<br>From instinct of a mutual thought,<br>Whence sanctity of manners flow'd;<br>From chance unconscious, and from what<br>Concealment, overconscious, show'd;<br>Her hand's less weight upon my arm,<br>Her lowlier mien; that match'd with this;<br>I found, and felt with strange alarm,<br>I stood committed to my bliss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II<br>I grew assured, before I ask'd,<br>That she'd be mine without reserve,<br>And in her unclaim'd graces bask'd,<br>At leisure, till the time should serve,<br>With just enough of dread to thrill<br>The hope, and make it trebly dear;<br>Thus loth to speak the word to kill<br>Either the hope or happy fear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III<br>Till once, through lanes returning late,<br>Her laughing sisters lagg'd behind;<br>And, ere we reach'd her father's gate,<br>We paused with one presentient mind;<br>And, in the dim and perfumed mist,<br>Their coming stay'd, who, friends to me, <br>And very women, loved to assist<br>Love's timid opportunity.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV<br>Twice rose, twice died my trembling word;<br>The faint and frail Cathedral chimes<br>Spake time in music, and we heard<br>The chafers rustling in the limes.<br>Her dress, that touch'd me where I stood,<br>The warmth of her confided arm,<br>Her bosom's gentle neighbourhood,<br>Her pleasure in her power to charm;<br>Her look, her love, her form, her touch,<br>The least seem'd most by blissful turn,<br>Blissful but that it pleased too much,<br>And taught the wayward soul to yearn.<br>It was as if a harp with wires<br>Was traversed by the breath I drew;<br>And, oh, sweet meeting of desires,<br>She, answering, own'd that she loved too.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V<br>Honoria was to be my bride!<br>The hopeless heights of hope were scaled;<br>The summit won, I paused and sigh'd,<br>As if success itself had fail'd.<br>It seem'd as if my lips approach'd<br>To touch at Tantalus' reward,<br>And rashly on Eden life encroach'd,<br>Half-blinded by the flaming sword.<br>The whole world's wealthiest and its best,<br>So fiercely sought, appear'd, when found,<br>Poor in its need to be possess'd,<br>Poor from its very want of bound.<br>My queen was crouching at my side,<br>By love unsceptred and brought low, <br>Her awful garb of maiden pride<br>All melted into tears like snow;<br>The mistress of my reverent thought,<br>Whose praise was all I ask'd of fame,<br>In my close-watch'd approval sought<br>Protection as from danger and blame;<br>Her soul, which late I loved to invest<br>With pity for my poor desert,<br>Buried its face within my breast,<br>Like a pet fawn by hunters hurt.</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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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=359164" data-title="The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto XII. de Coventry Patmore" data-description="Preludes.

I The Chace 
She wearies with an ill unknown;
In sleep she sobs and seems to float,
A water-lily, all alone
Within a lonely castle-moat;
And as the full-moon, spectral, lies
Within the crescent's gleaming arms,
The present shows her hee..."></div>
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