[This Victorian Web version of The Angel in the House is based on the Project Gutenberg e-text, which was produced by David Price (e-mail ccx074@coventry.ac.uk), from the 1891 Cassell & Company edition. GPL created the html, added links, and made corrections in the text after comparing it with other editions.]

                                                

Preludes

                                                

I. 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!

                                                

II. 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.

                                                

III. The Spirit's Epochs.

Not in the crises of events,
     Of compass'd hopes, or fears fulfill'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!

                                                

IV. The Prototype.

Lo, there, whence love, life, light are pour'd,
     Veil'd with impenetrable rays,
Amidst the presence of the Lord
     Co-equal Wisdom laughs and plays.
Female and male God made the man;
     His image is the whole, not half;
And in our love we dimly scan
     The love which is between Himself.

                                                

V. The Praise of Love.

Spirit of Knowledge, grant me this:
     A simple heart and subtle wit
To praise the thing whose praise it is
     That all which can be praised is it.

                                                

Sarum Plain.

                              1

Breakfast enjoy'd, 'mid hush of boughs
     And perfumes thro' the windows blown;
Brief worship done, which still endows
     The day with beauty not its own;
With intervening pause, that paints
     Each act with honour, life with calm
(As old processions of the Saints
     At every step have wands of palm), We rose; the ladies went to dress,
     And soon return'd with smiles; and then,
Plans fix'd, to which the Dean said 'Yes,'
     Once more we drove to Salisbury Plain.
We past my house (observed with praise
     By Mildred, Mary acquiesced), And left the old and lazy greys
     Below the hill, and walk'd the rest.

                               2

The moods of love are like the wind,
     And none knows whence or why they rise:
I ne'er before felt heart and mind
     So much affected through mine eyes.
How cognate with the flatter'd air,
     How form'd for earth's familiar zone,
She moved; how feeling and how fair
     For others' pleasure and her own!
And, ah, the heaven of her face!
     How, when she laugh'd, I seem'd to see
The gladness of the primal grace,
     And how, when grave, its dignity!
Of all she was, the least not less
     Delighted the devoted eye;
No fold or fashion of her dress
     Her fairness did not sanctify.
I could not else than grieve. What cause?
     Was I not blest? Was she not there?
Likely my own? Ah, that it was:
     How like seem'd 'likely' to despair!

                               3

And yet to see her so benign,
     So honourable and womanly,
In every maiden kindness mine,
     And full of gayest courtesy,
Was pleasure so without alloy,
     Such unreproved, sufficient bliss,
I almost wish'd, the while, that joy
     Might never further go than this.
So much it was as now to walk,
     And humbly by her gentle side
Observe her smile and hear her talk,
     Could it be more to call her Bride?
I feign'd her won: the mind finite,
     Puzzled and fagg'd by stress and strain
To comprehend the whole delight,
     Made bliss more hard to bear than pain.
All good, save heart to hold, so summ'd
     And grasp'd, the thought smote, like a knife,
How laps'd mortality had numb'd
     The feelings to the feast of life;
How passing good breathes sweetest breath;
     And love itself at highest reveals
More black than bright, commending death
     By teaching how much life conceals.

                               4

But happier passions these subdued,
     When from the close and sultry lane,
With eyes made bright by what they view'd,
     We emerged upon the mounded Plain.
As to the breeze a flag unfurls,
     My spirit expanded, sweetly embraced
By those same gusts that shook her curls
     And vex'd the ribbon at her waist.
To the future cast I future cares;
     Breathed with a heart unfreighted, free,
And laugh'd at the presumptuous airs
     That with her muslins folded me;
Till, one vague rack along my sky,
     The thought that she might ne'er be mine
Lay half forgotten by the eye
     So feasted with the sun's warm shine.

                               5

By the great stones we chose our ground
     For shade; and there, in converse sweet,
Took luncheon. On a little mound
     Sat the three ladies; at their feet
I sat; and smelt the heathy smell,
     Pluck'd harebells, turn'd the telescope
To the country round. My life went well,
     For once, without the wheels of hope;
And I despised the Druid rocks
     That scowl'd their chill gloom from above,
Like churls whose stolid wisdom mocks
     The lightness of immortal love.
And, as we talk'd, my spirit quaff'd
     The sparkling winds; the candid skies
At our untruthful strangeness laugh'd;
     I kiss'd with mine her smiling eyes;
And sweet familiarness and awe
     Prevail'd that hour on either part,
And in the eternal light I saw
     That she was mine; though yet my heart
Could not conceive, nor would confess
     Such contentation; and there grew
More form and more fair stateliness
     Than heretofore between us two.


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Last updated 8 August 2004