Analysis of The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto XII.
Coventry Patmore 1823 (Woodford, London) – 1896 (Lymington)
I The Chace
She wearies with an ill unknown;
In sleep she sobs and seems to float,
A water-lily, all alone
Within a lonely castle-moat;
And as the full-moon, spectral, lies
Within the crescent's gleaming arms,
The present shows her heedless eyes
A future dim with vague alarms.
She sees, and yet she scarcely sees,
For, life-in-life not yet begun,
Too many are its mysteries
For thought to fix on any one.
She's told that maidens are by youths
Extremely honour'd and desired;
And sighs, ‘If those sweet tales be truths,
‘What bliss to be so much admired!’
The suitors come; she sees them grieve;
Her coldness fills them with despair;
She'd pity if she could believe;
She's sorry that she cannot care.
But who now meets her on her way?
Comes he as enemy or friend,
Or both? Her bosom seems to say,
He cannot pass, and there an end.
Whom does he love? Does he confer
His heart on worth that answers his?
Or is he come to worship her?
She fears, she hopes, she thinks he is!
Advancing stepless, quick, and still,
As in the grass a serpent glides,
He fascinates her fluttering will,
Then terrifies with dreadful strides.
At first, there's nothing to resist;
He fights with all the forms of peace;
He comes about her like a mist,
With subtle, swift, unseen increase;
And then, unlook'd for, strikes amain
Some stroke that frightens her to death,
And grows all harmlessness again,
Ere she can cry, or get her breath.
At times she stops, and stands at bay;
But he, in all more strong than she,
Subdues her with his pale dismay,
Or more admired audacity.
She plans some final, fatal blow,
But when she means with frowns to kill
He looks as if he loved her so,
She smiles to him against her will.
How sweetly he implies her praise!
His tender talk, his gentle tone,
The manly worship in his gaze,
They nearly made her heart his own.
With what an air he speaks her name;
His manner always recollects
Her sex, and still the woman's claim
Is taught its scope by his respects.
Her charms, perceived to prosper first
In his beloved advertencies,
When in her glass they are rehearsed,
Prove his most powerful allies.
Ah, whither shall a maiden flee,
When a bold youth so swift pursues,
And siege of tenderest courtesy,
With hope perseverant, still renews!
Why fly so fast? Her flatter'd breast
Thanks him who finds her fair and good;
She loves her fears; veil'd joys arrest
The foolish terrors of her blood.
By secret, sweet degrees, her heart,
Vanquish'd, takes warmth from his desire;
She makes it more, with hidden art,
And fuels love's late dreaded fire.
The generous credit he accords
To all the signs of good in her
Redeems itself; his praiseful words
The virtues they impute confer.
Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss,
She's three times gentler than before;
He gains a right to call her his
Now she through him is so much more;
'Tis heaven where'er she turns her head;
Tis music when she talks; 'tis air
On which, elate, she seems to tread,
The convert of a gladder sphere!
Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved,
Behold his tokens next her breast,
At all his words and sighs perceived
Against its blythe upheaval press'd!
But still she flies. Should she be won,
It must not be believed or thought
She yields; she's chased to death, undone,
Surprised, and violently caught.
II Denied
The storm-cloud, whose portentous shade
Fumes from a core of smother'd fire,
His livery is whose worshipp'd maid
Denies herself to his desire.
Ah, grief that almost crushes life,
To lie upon his lonely bed,
And fancy her another's wife!
His brain is flame, his heart is lead.
Sinking at last, by nature's course,
Cloak'd round with sleep from his despair,
He does but sleep to gather force
That goes to his exhausted care.
He wakes renew'd for all the smart.
His only Love, and she is wed!
His fondness comes about his heart,
As milk comes, when the babe is dead.
The wretch, whom she found fit for scorn,
His own allegiant thoughts despise;
And far into the shining morn
Lazy with misery he lies.
III The Churl
This marks the Churl: when spousals crown
His selfish hope, he finds the grace,
Which sweet love has for even the clown,
Was not in the woman, but the chace.
I
From little signs, like little stars,
Whose faint impression on the sense
The very looking straight at mars,
Or only seen by confluence;
From inst
Scheme | Text too long |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 101 1111101 01110111 01010101 01010101 0101111 0101101 0101011 01011101 11011101 11011101 11011100 11111101 11110111 01010010 01111111 111111010 01011111 01011101 11011101 11011101 11110101 11110011 11010111 11010111 11111101 11111101 11111100 11111111 0101101 10010101 11001001 1101101 11110101 11110111 11010101 11010101 011111 11110011 011101 11111101 11110111 11011111 1011101 110100100 11110101 11111111 11111101 11110101 11010101 11011101 01010011 11010111 11111101 110101 01010101 11111101 01011101 01011 10011101 11110010 11010101 10111101 0111100 111101 11110101 11110101 11011101 01010101 11010101 101111010 11111101 010111010 010010101 11011100 0101111 01010101 01111101 11110101 11011101 11111111 110101101 11011111 11011111 0101011 11111101 01110101 11110101 01110101 11111111 11110111 11111101 01010001 101 01110101 110111010 110011101 010111010 1111101 11011101 01000101 11111111 10111101 11111101 11111101 11110101 11011101 11010111 11010111 11110111 01111111 111101 01010101 10110011 101 1101111 11011101 111111001 110010101 1 11011101 11010101 01010111 11011100 11 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 4,208 |
Words | 780 |
Sentences | 40 |
Stanzas | 4 |
Stanza Lengths | 93, 21, 5, 6 |
Lines Amount | 125 |
Letters per line (avg) | 27 |
Words per line (avg) | 6 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 835 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 194 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 4:00 min read
- 70 Views
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"The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto XII." Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 27 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/7366/the-angel-in-the-house.--book-i.--canto-xii.>.
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