Analysis of The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto III.
Coventry Patmore 1823 (Woodford, London) – 1896 (Lymington)
I 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 undaunted 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.
II 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!
III Unthrift
Ah, wasteful woman, she who may
On her sweet self set her own price,
Knowing man cannot choose but pay,
How has she cheapen'd paradise;
How given for nought her priceless gift,
How spoil'd the bread and spill'd the wine,
Which, spent with due, respective thrift,
Had made brutes men, and men divine.
IV The Attainment
You love? That's high as you shall go;
For 'tis as true as Gospel text,
Not noble then is never so,
Either in this world or the next.
I
Grown weary with a week's exile
From those fair friends, I rode to see
The church-restorings; lounged awhile,
And met the Dean; was ask'd to tea,
And found their cousin, Frederick Graham,
At Honor's side. Was I concern'd,
If, when she sang, his colour came,
That mine, as with a buffet, burn'd?
A man to please a girl! thought I,
Retorting his forced smiles, the shrouds
Of wrath, so hid as she was by,
Sweet moon between her lighted clouds!
II
Whether this Cousin was the cause
I know not, but I seem'd to see,
The first time then, how fair she was,
How much the fairest of the three.
Each stopp'd to let the other go;
But, time-bound, he arose the first.
Stay'd he in Sarum long? If so
I hoped to see him at the Hurst.
No: he had call'd here, on his way
To Portsmouth, where the ‘Arrogant,’
His ship, was; he should leave next day,
For two years' cruise in the Levant.
II
Had love in her yet struck its germs?
I watch'd. Her farewell show'd me plain
She loved, on the majestic terms
That she should not be loved again.
And so her cousin, parting, felt.
Hope in his voice and eye was dead.
Compassion did my malice melt;
Then went I home to a restless bed.
I, who admired her too, could see
His infinite remorse at this
Great mystery, that she should be
So beautiful, yet not be his,
And, pitying, long'd to plead his part;
But scarce could tell, so strange my whim,
Whether the weight upon my heart
Was sorrow for myself or him.
IV
She was all mildness; yet 'twas writ
In all her grace, most legibly,
‘He that's for heaven itself unfit,
‘Let him not hope to merit me.’
And such a challenge, quite apart
From thoughts of love, humbled, and thus
To sweet repentance moved my heart,
And made me more magnanimous,
And led me to review my life,
Inquiring where in aught the least,
If question were
Scheme | Text too long |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 1010 111100101 01011101 011111 1101001 11000101 11010001 0101011 00101110 11101101 01011101 11111111 11010001 1101111 110111010 11010101 10110010 01011101 11101001 01110111 010010101 11111111 11110101 11010101 11111 11010111 11011111 11110101 110100101 11111101 01110111 11011101 11110100 11011101 11011100 1110100 110110 0111101 11010101 11010101 11110010 11010 11011101 11010101 11011111 11010101 11111101 0110101 11011111 1101011 11110101 110110111 01011101 01110111 11010111 0111111 110101001 11000111 11 11010111 10111011 10110111 1111010 110110101 11010101 11110101 11110101 10010 11111111 11111101 11011101 10011101 1 1101011 11111111 011101 01011111 011101010 11011101 1111111 11110101 01110111 111101 11111111 11010101 1 10110101 11111111 01111111 11010101 11110101 11110101 11010111 11111101 11111111 11010100 11111111 11110001 1 11001111 1101111 11100101 11111101 01010101 10110111 01011101 111110101 110100111 11000111 11001111 11001111 010011111 11111111 10010111 1101111 1 1111111 010111 111100101 11111101 01010101 11111001 11010111 01110100 0111111 010010101 1100 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 4,182 |
Words | 785 |
Sentences | 35 |
Stanzas | 8 |
Stanza Lengths | 41, 17, 9, 5, 13, 13, 17, 12 |
Lines Amount | 127 |
Letters per line (avg) | 26 |
Words per line (avg) | 6 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 412 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 98 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 4:02 min read
- 98 Views
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"The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto III." Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/7357/the-angel-in-the-house.--book-i.--canto-iii.>.
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