Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore was an English poet and critic best known for The Angel in the House, his narrative poem about an ideal happy marriage.
The eldest son of author Peter George Patmore, Coventry Patmore was born at Woodford in Essex and was privately educated. He was his father's intimate and constant companion and inherited from him his early literary enthusiasm. It was Coventry's ambition to become an artist. He showed much promise, earning the silver palette of the Society of Arts in 1838. In 1839 he was sent to school in France for six months, where he began to write poetry. On his return, his father planned to publish some of ... more »
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Coventry Patmore Poems
My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, I struck him, and dismiss'd
Magna Est Veritas
Here, in this little Bay, Full of tumultuous life and great repose, Where, twice a day, The purposeless, gay ocean comes and goes,
It was not like your great and gracious ways! Do you, that have naught other to lament, Never, my Love, repent Of how, that July afternoon,
The Married Lover
Why, having won her, do I woo? Because her spirit's vestal grace Provokes me always to pursue, But, spirit-like, eludes embrace;
I walk, I trust, with open eyes; I've travelled half my worldly course; And in the way behind me lies Much vanity and some remorse;
With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear.
Deliciae Sapientiae de Amore
Love, light for me Thy ruddiest blazing torch, That I, albeit a beggar by the Porch Of the glad Palace of Virginity,
'If I were dead'
'IF I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!' The dear lips quiver'd as they spake, And the tears brake From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled.
An idle poet, here and there, Looks around him; but, for all the rest, The world, unfathomably fair, Is duller than a witling's jest.
Faint Yet Pursuing
Heroic Good, target for which the young Dream in their dreams that every bow is strung, And, missing, sigh Unfruitful, or as disbelievers die,
The Foreign Land
A woman is a foreign land, Of which, though there he settle young, A man will ne'er quite understand The customs, politics, and tongue.
A London Fête
All night fell hammers, shock on shock; With echoes Newgate's granite clang'd: The scaffold built, at eight o'clock
The Spirit's Depths
Not in the crisis of events Of compass'd hopes, or fears fulfill'd, Or acts of gravest consequence, Are life's delight and depth reveal'd.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,
I struck him, and dismiss'd
With hard words and unkiss'd,
—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 darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet
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,