Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
‘ Enough, enough, ambrosial plumed Boy! My bosom is aweary of thy breath. Thou kissest joy To death.
Have pity of my clay-conceived birth And maiden's simple mood, Which longs for ether and infinitude, As thou, being God, crav'st littleness and earth!
Thou art immortal, thou canst ever toy, Nor savour less The sweets of thine eternal childishness, And hold thy godhead bright in far employ.
Me, to quite other custom life-inured, Ah, loose from thy caress. ‘ Tis not to be endured! Undo thine arms and let me see the sky,
By this infatuating flame obscured. O, I should feel thee nearer to my heart If thou and I Shone each to each respondently apart,
Like stars which one the other trembling spy, Distinct and lucid in extremes of air. O, hear me pray —’ ‘ Be prudent in thy prayer!
A God is bond to her who is wholly his, And, should she ask amiss, He may not her beseeched harm deny.’ ‘ Not yet, not yet!
‘ Tis still high day, and half my toil's to do. How can I toil, if thus thou dost renew Toil's guerdon, which the daytime should forget? The long, long night, when none can work for fear,
Sweet fear incessantly consummated, My most divinely Dear, My Joy, my Dread, Will soon be here!
Not, Eros, yet! I ask, for Day, the use which is the Wife's: To bear, apart from thy delight and thee, The fardel coarse of customary life's
Exceeding injucundity. Leave me awhile, that I may shew thee clear How Goddess-like thy love has lifted me; How, seeming lone upon the gaunt, lone shore,
I'll trust thee near, When thou'rt, to knowledge of my heart, no more Than a dream's heed Of lost joy track'd in scent of the sea-weed!
Leave me to pluck the incomparable flower Of frailty lion-like fighting in thy name and power; To make thee laugh, in thy safe heaven, to see With what grip fell
I'll cling to hope when life draws hard to hell, Yea, cleave to thee when me thou seem'st to slay, Haply, at close of some most cruel day, To find myself in thy reveal'd arms clasp'd,
Just when I say, My feet have slipp'd at last! But, lo, while thus I store toil's slow increase, To be my dower, in patience and in peace,
Thou com'st, like bolt from blue, invisibly, With premonition none nor any sign, And, at a gasp, no choice nor fault of mine, Possess'd I am with thee
Ev'n as a sponge is by a surge of the sea!’ ‘ Thus irresistibly by Love embraced Is she who boasts her more than mortal chaste!’ ‘ Find'st thou me worthy, then, by day and night,
But of this fond indignity, delight?’ ‘ Little, bold Femininity, That darest blame Heaven, what would'st thou have or be?’ ‘ Shall I, the gnat which dances in thy ray,
Dare to be reverent? Therefore dare I say, I cannot guess the good that I desire; But this I know, I spurn the gifts which Hell Can mock till which is which‘ tis hard to tell.
I love thee, God; yea, and‘ twas such assault As this which made me thine; if that be fault; But I, thy Mistress, merit should thine ire If aught so little, transitory and low
As this which made me thine Should hold me so.’ ‘ Little to thee, my Psyche, is this, but much to me!’ ‘ Ah, if, my God, that be!’
‘ Yea, Palate fine, That claim'st for thy proud cup the pearl of price, And scorn'st the wine, Accept the sweet, and say‘ tis sacrifice!
Sleep, Centre to the tempest of my love, And dream thereof, And keep the smile which sleeps within thy face Like sunny eve in some forgotten place!’
Cookies on Poetry Cove