Puslapio vaizdai
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Yet space is given for breath of thought
Beyond our bounds when musing: more
When to that musing love is brought,
And love is asked of love's wherefore.
'Tis Earth's, her gift; else have we nought:
Her gift, her secret, here our tie.
And not with her and yonder sky?
Bethink you: were it Earth alone
Breeds love, would not her region be
The sole delight and throne
Of generous Deity?

To deeper than this ball of sight
Appeal the lustrous people of the night.
Fronting yon shoreless, sown with fiery
sails,

It is our ravenous that quails, Flesh by its craven thirsts and fears distraught.

The spirit leaps alight,

Doubts not in them is he,

The binder of his sheaves, the same, the right:

Of magnitude to magnitude is wrought,
To feel it large of the great life they hold:
In them to come, or vaster intervolved,
The issues known in us, our unsolved
solved :

That there with toil Life climbs the self

same Tree,

Whose roots enrichment have from ripeness dropped.

So may we read and little find them cold: Let it but be the lord of Mind to guide Our eyes; no branch of Reason's growing lopped;

Nor dreaming on a dream; but fortified By day to penetrate black midnight; see, Hear, feel, outside the senses; even that we, The specks of dust upon a mound of mould, We who reflect those rays, though low our place,

To them are lastingly allied.

So may we read, and little find them cold:
Not frosty lamps illumining dead space,
Not distant aliens, not senseless Powers.
The fire is in them whereof we are born;
The music of their motion may be ours.
Spirit shall deem them beckoning Earth and
voiced

Sisterly to her, in her beams rejoiced.
Of love, the grand impulsion, we behold
The love that lends her grace
Among the starry fold.

Then at new flood of customary morn,
Look at her through her showers,
Her mists, her streaming gold,

A wonder edges the familiar face:
She wears no more that robe of printed
hours;

Half strange seems Earth, and sweeter than her flowers.

COVENTRY PATMORE

SELECTIONS FROM THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE [1854-56.]

THE IMPOSSIBILITY

[1823-1896]

Lo, Love's obey'd by all. 'Tis right
That all should know what they obey,
Lest erring conscience damp delight,

And folly laugh our joys away.
Thou Primal Love, who grantest wings
And voices to the woodland birds,
Grant me the power of saying things
Too simple and too sweet for words!

LOVE'S REALITY

I WALK, I trust, with open eyes;

I've travell'd half my worldly course; And in the way behind me lies

Much vanity and some remorse; I've lived to feel how pride may part

Spirits, tho' match'd like hand and glove; I've blushed for love's abode, the heart; But have not disbelieved in love; Nor unto love, sole mortal thing

Of worth immortal, done the wrong To count it, with the rest that sing, Unworthy of a serious song; And love is my reward: for now, When most of dead'ning time complain, The myrtle blooms upon my brow,

Its odour quickens all my brain.

THE LOVER

He meets, by heavenly chance express,
The destined maid; some hidden hand
Unveils to him that loveliness

Which others cannot understand.
His merits in her presence grow,
To match the promise in her eyes,
And round her happy footsteps blow
The authentic airs of Paradise.
For joy of her he cannot sleep;

Her beauty haunts him all the night;
It melts his heart, it makes him weep
For wonder, worship, and delight.
O, paradox of love, he longs,

Most humble when he most aspires, To suffer scorn and cruel wrongs

From her he honours and desires. Her graces make him rich, and ask No guerdon; this imperial style Affronts him; he disdains to bask,

The pensioner of her priceless smile.

He prays for some hard thing to do,
Some work of fame and labour immense,
To stretch the languid bulk and thew
Of love's fresh-born magnipotence.
No smallest boon were bought too dear,
Though barter'd for his love-sick life;
Yet trusts he, with undoubted cheer,

To vanquish heaven, and call her Wife. He notes how queens of sweetness still Neglect their crowns, and stoop to mate; How, self-consign'd with lavish will,

They ask but love proportionate;
How swift pursuit by small degrees,
Love's tactic, works like miracle;
How valour, clothed in courtesies,

Brings down the haughtiest citadel;
And therefore, though he merits not
To kiss the braid upon her skirt,
His hope, discouraged ne'er a jot,
Out-soars all possible desert.

LOVE A VIRTUE

STRONG passions mean weak will, and he
Who truly knows the strength and bliss
Which are in love, will own with me

No passion but a virtue 'tis.
Few hear my word; it soars above

The subtlest senses of the swarm

Of wretched things which know not love,
Their Psyche still a wingless worm.
Ice-cold seems heaven's noble glow
To spirits whose vital heat is hell;
And to corrupt hearts even so

The songs I sing, the tale I tell.
These cannot see the robes of white

In which I sing of love. Alack, But darkness shows in heavenly light, Though whiteness, in the dark, is black!

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The best things that the best believe
Are in her face so kindly writ
The faithless, seeing her, conceive
Not only heaven, but hope of it;
No idle thought her instinct shrouds,
But fancy chequers settled sense,
Like alteration of the clouds

On noonday's azure permanence;
Pure dignity, composure, ease

Declare affections nobly fix'd,
And impulse sprung from due degrees
Of sense and spirit sweetly mix'd.
Her modesty, her chiefest grace,
The cestus clasping Venus' side,
How potent to deject the face

Of him who would affront its pride!
Wrong dares not in her presence speak,
Nor spotted thought its taint disclose
Under the protest of a cheek

Outbragging Nature's boast the rose.
In mind and manners how discreet;

How artless in her very art;
How candid in discourse; how sweet
The concord of her lips and heart;
How simple and how circumspect;

How subtle and how fancy-free;
Though sacred to her love, how deck'd
With unexclusive courtesy ;
How quick in talk to see from far
The way to vanquish or evade;
How able her persuasions are

To prove, her reasons to persuade;
How (not to call true instinct's bent
And woman's very nature, harm),
How amiable and innocent

Her pleasure in her power to charm; How humbly careful to attract,

Though crown'd with all the soul desires,

Connubial aptitude exact,

Diversity that never tires.

THE DEAN

I

THE Ladies rose. I held the door, And sigh'd, as her departing grace Assured me that she always wore

A heart as happy as her face; And, jealous of the winds that blew, I dreaded, o'er the tasteless wine, What fortune momently might do

To hurt the hope that she'd be mine.

II

Towards my mark the Dean's talk set: He praised my 'Notes on Abury,' Read when the Association met

At Sarum; he was pleased to see I had not stopp'd, as some men had, At Wrangler and Prize Poet; last, He hoped the business was not bad

I came about: then the wine pass'd.

III

A full glass prefaced my reply:

I loved his daughter, Honor; I told My estate and prospects; might I try

To win her? At my words so bold My sick heart sank. Then he: He gave His glad consent, if I could get Her love. A dear, good Girl! she'd have Only three thousand pounds as yet; More bye and bye. Yes, his good will Should go with me; he would not stir; He and my father in old time still Wish'd I should some day marry her; But God so seldom lets us take

Our chosen pathway, when it lies In steps that either mar or make Or alter others' destinies,

That, though his blessing and his pray'r Had help'd, should help, my suit, yet he Left all to me, his passive share

Consent and opportunity.

My chance, he hoped, was good: I'd won Some name already; friends and place Appear'd within my reach, but none

Her mind and manners would not grace. Girls love to see the men in whom

They invest their vanities admired;
Besides, where goodness is, there room
For good to work will be desired.
'Twas so with one now pass'd away;
And what she was at twenty-two,
Honor was now; and he might say

Mine was a choice I could not rue.

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We went whither my soul was drawn; And her light-hearted ignorance

Of interest in our discourse Fill'd me with love, and seem'd to enhance Her beauty with pathetic force,

As, through the flowery mazes sweet,

Fronting the wind that flutter'd blythe, And loved her shape, and kiss'd her feet, Shown to their insteps proud and lithe, She approach'd, all mildness and young trust,

And ever her chaste and noble air Gave to love's feast its choicest gust, A vague, faint augury of despair.

LOVE'S IMMORTALITY How VILELY 'twere to misdeserve

The poet's gift of perfect speech, In song to try, with trembling nerve, The limit of its utmost reach,

Only to sound the wretched praise
Of what tomorrow shall not be;
So mocking with immortal bays

The cross-bones of mortality!
I do not thus. My faith is fast
That all the loveliness I sing
Is made to bear the mortal blast,
And blossom in a better Spring.
Doubts of eternity ne'er cross

The Lover's mind, divinely clear:
For ever is the gain or loss

Which maddens him with hope or fear:

So trifles serve for his relief,

And trifles make him sick and pale;

And yet his pleasure and his grief

Are both on a majestic scale.

The chance, indefinitely small,

Of issue infinitely great,

Eclipses finite interests all,

And has the dignity of fate.

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!

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.

THE SPIRIT'S EPOCHS

NoT in the crisis of events,
Of compass'd hopes, or fears fulfil'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!

GOING TO CHURCH

(4)

THENCEFORTH, and through that pray'r, I trod

A path with no suspicions dim,

I loved her in the name of God,

And for the ray she was of Him;

I ought to admire much more, not less;
Her beauty was a godly grace;

The mystery of loveliness,

Which made an altar of her face, Was not of the flesh, though that was fair, But a most pure and living light Without a name, by which the rare And virtuous spirit flamed to sight. If oft, in love, effect lack'd cause

And cause effect, 'twere vain to soar Reasons to seek for that which was Reason itself, or something more. My joy was no idolatry

Upon the ends of the vile earth bent, For when I loved her most then I

Most yearn'd for more divine content. That other doubt, which, like a ghost, In the brain's darkness haunted me, Was thus resolved; Him loved I most, But her I loved most sensibly. Lastly, my giddiest hope allow'd

No selfish thought, or earthly smirch; And forth I went, in peace, and proud To take my passion into Church; Grateful and glad to think that all Such doubts would seem entirely vain To her whose nature's lighter fall Made no divorce of heart from brain.

THE ABDICATION
(4)

TWICE rose, twice died my trembling word;
The faint and frail Cathedral chimes

Spake time in music, and we heard

The chafers rustling in the limes.

Her dress, that touch'd me where I stood,
The warmth of her confided arm,
Her bosom's gentle neighbourhood,

Her pleasure in her power to charm;
Her look, her love, her form, her touch,
The least seem'd most by blissful turn,
Blissful but that it pleased too much,
And taught the wayward soul to yearn.
It was as if a harp with wires
Was traversed by the breath I drew;
And, oh, sweet meeting of desires,
She, answering, own'd that she loved too.

LOVE'S PERVERSITY
HOW STRANGE a thing a lover seems
To animals that do not love!
Lo, where he walks and talks in dreams,
And flouts us with his Lady's glove;
How foreign is the garb he wears;

And how his great devotion mocks
Our poor propriety, and scares

The undevout with paradox?

His soul, through scorn of worldly care, And great extremes of sweet and gall, And musing much on all that's fair,

Grows witty and fantastical;

He sobs his joy and sings his grief,
And evermore finds such delight

In simply picturing his relief,

That 'plaining seems to cure his plight; He makes his sorrow, when there's none; His fancy blows both cold and hot; Next to the wish that she'll be won,

His first hope is that she may not; He sues, yet deprecates consent;

Would she be captured she must fly; She looks too happy and content,

For whose least pleasure he would die. Oh, cruelty, she cannot care

For one to whom she's always kind! He says he's nought, but, oh, despair, If he's not Jove to her fond mind! He's jealous if she pets a dove,

She must be his with all her soul; Yet 'tis a postulate in love

That part is greater than the whole; And all his apprehension's stress,

When he's with her, regards her hair,
Her hand, a ribbon of her dress,

As if his life were only there;
Because she's constant, he will change,
And kindest glances coldly meet,
And, all the time he seems so strange,
His soul is fawning at her feet;

Of smiles and simple heaven grown tired,
He wickedly provokes her tears,
And when she weeps, as he desired,
Falls slain with ecstasies of fears;

He blames her, though she has no fault,
Except the folly to be his;

He worships her, the more to exalt
The profanation of a kiss;
Health's his disease; he's never well

But when his paleness shames her rose; His faith's a rock-built citadel,

Its sign a flag that each way blows; His o'erfed fancy frets and fumes;

And Love, in him, is fierce, like Hate, And ruffles his ambrosial plumes Against the bars of time and fate.

THE FOREIGN LAND

A WOMAN is a foreign land,

Of which, though there he settled young, A man will ne'er quite understand

The customs, politics, and tongue.

The foolish hie them post-haste through, See fashions odd, and prospects fair, Learn of the language, 'How d'ye do,' And go and brag they have been there. The most for leave to trade apply,

For once, at Empire's seat, her heart, Then get what knowledge ear and eye Glean chancewise in the life-long mart. And certain others, few and fit,

Attach them to the Court, and see The Country's best, its accent hit, And partly sound its polity.

THE MARRIED LOVER WHY, having won her, do I woo? Because her spirit's vestal grace Provokes me always to pursue,

But, spirit-like, eludes embrace; Because her womanhood is such

That, as on court-days subjects kiss The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch Affirms no mean familiarness, Nay, rather marks more fair the height Which can with safety so neglect To dread, as lower ladies might, That grace could meet with disrespect; Thus she with happy favour feeds

Allegiance from a love so high

That thence no false conceit proceeds
Of difference bridged, or state put by;
Because, although in act and word

As lowly as a wife can be,
Her manners, when they call me lord,
Remind me 'tis by courtesy;

Not with her least consent of will,
Which would my proud affection hurt,
But by the noble style that still
Imputes an unattain'd desert;
Because her gay and lofty brows,
When all is won which hope can ask,
Reflect a light of hopeless snows

That bright in virgin ether bask;
Because, though free of the outer court
I am, this Temple keeps its shrine
Sacred to Heaven; because, in short,
She's not and never can be mine.

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