[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 1888 Cassell & Company edition. GPL created the html, added links, and made corrections in the text after comparing it with other editions.]

I leave this, Dear, for you to read,
For strength and hope, when I am dead.
When Grace died, I was so perplex'd,
I could not find one helpful text;
And when, a little while before,
I saw her sobbing on the floor,
Because I told her that in heaven
She would be as the angels even,
And would not want her doll, 'tis true
A horrible fear within me grew,
That, since the preciousness of love
Went thus for nothing, mine might prove
To be no more, and heaven's bliss
Some dreadful good which is not this.
     But being about to die makes clear
Many dark things. I have no fear,
Now that my love, my grief, my joy
Is but a passion for a toy.
I cannot speak at all, I find,
The shining something in my mind
That shows so much that, if I took
My thoughts all down, 'twould make a book.
God's Word, which lately seem'd above
The simpleness of human love,
To my death-sharpen'd hearing tells
Of little or of nothing else;
And many things I hoped were true,
When first they came, like songs, from you,
Now rise with witness past the reach
Of doubt, and I to you can teach,
As if with felt authority
And as things seen, what you taught me.
     Yet how? I have no words but those
Which every one already knows:
As, 'No man hath at any time
Seen God, but 'tis the love of Him
Made perfect, and He dwells in us,
If we each other love.' Or thus,
'My goodness misseth in extent
Of Thee, Lord! In the excellent
I know Thee; and the Saints on Earth
Make all my love and holy mirth.'
And further, 'Inasmuch as ye
Did it to one of these, to Me
Ye did it, though ye nothing thought
Nor knew of Me, in that ye wrought.'
     What shall I dread? Will God undo
Our bond, which is all others too?
And when I meet you will you say
To my reclaiming looks, 'Away!
A dearer love my bosom warms
With higher rights and holier charms.
The children, whom thou here may'st see,
Neighbours that mingle thee and me,
And gaily on impartial lyres
Renounce the foolish filial fires
They felt, with "Praise to God on high,
Goodwill to all else equally;"
The trials, duties, service, tears;
The many fond, confiding years
Of nearness sweet with thee apart;
The joy of body, mind, and heart;
The love that grew a reckless growth,
Unmindful that the marriage-oath
To love in an eternal style
Meant--only for a little while:
Sever'd are now those bonds earth-wrought;
All love, not new, stands here for nought!'
     Why, it seems almost wicked, Dear,
Even to utter such a fear!
Are we not 'heirs,' as man and wife,
'Together of eternal life?'
Was Paradise e'er meant to fade,
To make which marriage first was made?
Neither beneath him nor above
Could man in Eden find his Love;
Yet with him in the garden walk'd
His God, and with Him mildly talk'd!
Shall the humble preference offend
In Heaven, which God did there commend?
Are 'Honourable and undefiled'
The names of aught from heaven exiled?
And are we not forbid to grieve
As without hope? Does God deceive,
And call that hope which is despair,
Namely, the heaven we should not share!
Image and glory of the man,
As he of God, is woman. Can
This holy, sweet proportion die
Into a dull equality?
Are we not one flesh, yea, so far
More than the babe and mother are,
That sons are bid mothers to leave
And to their wives alone to cleave,
'For THEY two are one flesh!' But 'tis
In the flesh we rise. Our union is,
You know 'tis said, 'great mystery.'
Great mockery, it appears to me;
Poor image of the spousal bond
Of Christ and Church, if loosed beyond
This life!--'Gainst which, and much more yet,
There's not a single word to set.
The speech to the scoffing Sadducee
Is not in point to you and me;
For how could Christ have taught such clods
That Caesar's things are also God's?
The sort of Wife the Law could make
Might well be 'hated' for Love's sake,
And left, like money, land, or house;
For out of Christ is no true spouse.
     I used to think it strange of Him
To make love's after-life so dim,
Or only clear by inference:
But God trusts much to common sense,
And only tells us what, without
His Word, we could not have found out
On fleshly tables of the heart
He penn'd truth's feeling counterpart
In hopes that come to all: so, Dear,
Trust these, and be of happy cheer,
Nor think that he who has loved well
Is of all men most miserable.
     There's much more yet I want to say,
But cannot now. You know my way
Of feeling strong from Twelve till Two
After my wine. I'll write to you
Daily some words, which you shall have
To break the silence of the grave.


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Last updated 10 August 2004