[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.]




I. The Wife's Tragedy

Man must be pleased; but him to please
     Is woman's pleasure; down the gulf
Of his condoled necessities
     She casts her best, she flings herself.
How often flings for nought, and yokes
     Her heart to an icicle or whim,
Whose each impatient word provokes
     Another, not from her, but him;
While she, too gentle even to force
     His penitence by kind replies,
Waits by, expecting his remorse,
     With pardon in her pitying eyes;
And if he once, by shame oppress'd,
     A comfortable word confers,
She leans and weeps against his breast,
     And seems to think the sin was hers;
And whilst his love has any life,
     Or any eye to see her charms,
At any time, she's still his wife,
     Dearly devoted to his arms;
She loves with love that cannot tire;
     And when, ah woe, she loves alone,
Through passionate duty love springs higher,
     As grass grows taller round a stone.



Is nature in thee too spiritless,
     Ignoble, impotent, and dead,
To prize her love and loveliness
     The more for being thy daily bread?
And art thou one of that vile crew
     Which see no splendour in the sun,
Praising alone the good that's new,
     Or over, or not yet begun?
And has it dawn'd on thy dull wits
     That love warms many as soft a nest,
That, though swathed round with benefits,
     Thou art not singularly blest?
And fail thy thanks for gifts divine,
     The common food of many a heart,
Because they are not only thine?
     Beware lest in the end thou art
Cast for thy pride forth from the fold,
     Too good to feel the common grace
Of blissful myriads who behold
     For evermore the Father's face.


III. The Zest of Life.

Give thanks. It is not time misspent;
     Worst fare this betters, and the best,
Wanting this natural condiment,
     Breeds crudeness, and will not digest.
The grateful love the Giver's law;
     But those who eat, and look no higher,
From sin or doubtful sanction draw
     The biting sauce their feasts require.
Give thanks for nought, if you've no more,
     And, having all things, do not doubt
That nought, with thanks, is blest before
     Whate'er the world can give, without.


Fool and Wise.

Endow the fool with sun and moon,
     Being his, he holds them mean and low,
But to the wise a little boon
     Is great, because the giver's so.




I stood by Honor and the Dean,
     They seated in the London train.
A month from her! yet this had been,
     Ere now, without such bitter pain.
But neighbourhood makes parting light,
     And distance remedy has none;
Alone, she near, I felt as might
     A blind man sitting in the sun;
She near, all for the time was well;
     Hope's self, when we were far apart,
With lonely feeling, like the smell
     Of heath on mountains, fill'd my heart.
To see her seem'd delight's full scope,
     And her kind smile, so clear of care,
Ev'n then, though darkening all my hope,
     Gilded the cloud of my despair.


She had forgot to bring a book.
     I lent one; blamed the print for old;
And did not tell her that she took
     A Petrarch worth its weight in gold.
I hoped she'd lose it; for my love
     Was grown so dainty, high, and nice,
It prized no luxury above
     The sense of fruitless sacrifice.


The bell rang, and, with shrieks like death,
     Link catching link, the long array,
With ponderous pulse and fiery breath,
     Proud of its burthen, swept away;
And through the lingering crowd I broke,
     Sought the hill-side, and thence, heart-sick,
Beheld, far off, the little smoke
     Along the landscape kindling quick.


What should I do, where should I go,
     Now she was gone, my love! for mine
She was, whatever here below
     Cross'd or usurp'd my right divine.
Life, without her, was vain and gross,
     The glory from the world was gone,
And on the gardens of the Close
     As on Sahara shone the sun.
Oppress'd with her departed grace,
     My thoughts on ill surmises fed;
The harmful influence of the place
     She went to fill'd my soul with dread.
She, mixing with the people there,
     Might come back alter'd, having caught
The foolish, fashionable air
     Of knowing all, and feeling nought.
Or, giddy with her beauty's praise,
     She'd scorn our simple country life,
Its wholesome nights and tranquil days.
     And would not deign to be my Wife.
'My Wife,' 'my Wife,' ah, tenderest word!
     How oft, as fearful she might hear,
Whispering that name of 'Wife,' I heard
     The chiming of the inmost sphere.


I pass'd the home of my regret.
     The clock was striking in the hall,
And one sad window open yet,
     Although the dews began to fall.
Ah, distance show'd her beauty's scope!
     How light of heart and innocent
That loveliness which sicken'd hope
     And wore the world for ornament!
How perfectly her life was framed;
     And, thought of in that passionate mood,
How her affecting graces shamed
     The vulgar life that was but good!


I wonder'd, would her bird be fed,
     Her rose-plots water'd, she not by;
Loading my breast with angry dread
     Of light, unlikely injury.
So, fill'd with love and fond remorse,
     I paced the Close, its every part
Endow'd with reliquary force
     To heal and raise from death my heart.
How tranquil and unsecular
     The precinct! Once, through yonder gate,
I saw her go, and knew from far
     Her love-lit form and gentle state.
Her dress had brush'd this wicket; here
     She turn'd her face, and laugh'd, with light
Like moonbeams on a wavering mere.
     Weary beforehand of the night,
I went; the blackbird, in the wood
     Talk'd by himself, and eastward grew
In heaven the symbol of my mood,
     Where one bright star engross'd the blue.

Last updated 8 August 2004