Читать книгу The Victories of Love, and Other Poems - Coventry Patmore - Страница 8

Write not, my Mother, her dear name

With the least word or hint of blame.

Who else shall discommend her choice,

I giving it my hearty voice?

Wed me?  Ah, never near her come

The knowledge of the narrow home!

Far fly from her dear face, that shows

The sunshine lovelier than the rose,

The sordid gravity they wear

Who poverty’s base burthen bear!

(And all are poor who come to miss

Their custom, though a crown be this.)

My hope was, that the wheels of fate,

For my exceeding need, might wait,

And she, unseen amidst all eyes,

Move sightless, till I sought the prize,

With honour, in an equal field.

But then came Vaughan, to whom I yield

With grace as much as any man,

In such cause, to another can.

Had she been mine, it seems to me

That I had that integrity

And only joy in her delight—

But each is his own favourite

In love!  The thought to bring me rest

Is that of us she takes the best.

   ’Twas but to see him to be sure

That choice for her remain’d no more!

His brow, so gaily clear of craft;

His wit, the timely truth that laugh’d

To find itself so well express’d;

His words, abundant yet the best;

His spirit, of such handsome show

You mark’d not that his looks were so;

His bearing, prospects, birth, all these

Might well, with small suit, greatly please;

How greatly, when she saw arise

The reflex sweetness of her eyes

In his, and every breath defer

Humbly its bated life to her;

Whilst power and kindness of command.

Which women can no more withstand

Than we their grace, were still unquell’d,

And force and flattery both compell’d

Her softness!  Say I’m worthy.  I

Grew, in her presence, cold and shy.

It awed me, as an angel’s might

In raiment of reproachful light.

Her gay looks told my sombre mood

That what’s not happy is not good;

And, just because ’twas life to please,

Death to repel her, truth and ease

Deserted me; I strove to talk,

And stammer’d foolishness; my walk

Was like a drunkard’s; if she took

My arm, it stiffen’d, ached, and shook:

A likely wooer!  Blame her not;

Nor ever say, dear Mother, aught

Against that perfectness which is

My strength, as once it was my bliss.

   And do not chafe at social rules.

Leave that to charlatans and fools.

Clay grafts and clods conceive the rose,

So base still fathers best.  Life owes

Itself to bread; enough thereof

And easy days condition love;

And, kindly train’d, love’s roses thrive,

No more pale, scentless petals five,

Which moisten the considerate eye

To see what haste they make to die,

But heavens of colour and perfume,

Which, month by month, renew the bloom

Of art-born graces, when the year

In all the natural grove is sere.

   Blame nought then!  Bright let be the air

About my lonely cloud of care.