Coventry Patmore

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Hodder and Stoughton, 1905 - Poets, English - 252 pages
 

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Page 116 - To God, I wept, and said: Ah! when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 'I will be sorry for their childishness.
Page 107 - 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 life-time each; They lift their heavy lids and look; And, lo, what one sweet page can teach, They read with joy, then shut the book.
Page 115 - THE TOYS MY little Son, who looked from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobeyed, I struck him, and dismissed With hard words and unkissed, — His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet.
Page 115 - From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own ; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters, and a...
Page 95 - 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...
Page 96 - I Wonder what the Grave and Wise Think of all us that Love ; Whether our Pretty Fooleries Their Mirth or Anger move ; They understand not Breath, that Words does want ; Our Sighs to them are unsignificant. 2. One of them saw me th...
Page 87 - Whene'er I come where ladies are, How sad soever I was before, Though like a ship frost-bound and far Withheld in ice from the ocean's roar, Third-winter'd in that dreadful dock, With stiffen'd cordage, sails decay'd, And crew that care for calm and shock Alike, too dull to be dismay'd, Yet, if I come where ladies are, How sad soever I was before, Then is my sadness...
Page 44 - IF one could have that little head of hers Painted upon a background of pale gold, Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers! No shade encroaching on the matchless mould Of those two lips, which should be opening soft In the pure profile; not as when she laughs, For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's Burthen of honey-coloured buds to kiss And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.
Page 94 - 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...
Page 228 - And waked, ah, God, and did not waken her, But lay, with eyes still closed, Perfectly bless'd in the delicious sphere By which I knew so well that she was near, My heart to speechless thankfulness composed. Till 'gan to stir A dizzy somewhat in my troubled head — It was the azalea's breath, and she was dead ! The warm night had the lingering buds disclosed, And I had fall'n asleep with to my breast A chance-found letter press'd In which she said, ' So, till to-morrow eve, my Own, adieu ! Parting's...

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