Coventry Patmore Poems

Said Jove within himself one day,
‘I'll make me a mistress out of clay!
These ninefold spheres of chiming quires,
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Preludes.

I The Wife's Tragedy
Man must be pleased; but him to please
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No praise to me!
My joy 'twas to be nothing but the glass
Thro' which the general boon of Heaven should pass,
To focus upon thee.
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Bright thro' the valley gallops the brooklet;
Over the welkin travels the cloud;
Touch'd by the zephyr, dances the harebell;
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Through female subtlety intense,
Or the good luck of innocence,
Or both, my Wife, with whom I plan
To pass calm evenings when I can,
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Whate'er thou dost thou'rt dear.
Uncertain troubles sanctify
That magic well-spring of the willing tear,
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How strange at night to wake
And watch, while others sleep,
Till sight and hearing ache
For objects that may keep
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Preludes

I The Married Lover
Why, having won her, do I woo?
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I
I call this idle history the ‘Berry of the Yew;
Because there's nothing sweeter than its husk of scarlet glue,
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I
From Frederick Graham

Mother, I smile at your alarms!
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