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Best Famous Coventry Patmore Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Coventry Patmore poems. This is a select list of the best famous Coventry Patmore poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Coventry Patmore poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Coventry Patmore poems.

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by Coventry Patmore | |

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.
Poor Child, poor Child! I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song.
It is not true that Love will do no wrong.
Poor Child! And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, And of those words your full avengers make? Poor Child, poor Child! And now, unless it be That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O God, have Thou no mercy upon me! Poor Child!


by Coventry Patmore | |

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,
Thee having miss'd, I will not so revolt,
But lowlier shoot my bolt,
And lowlier still, if still I may not reach,
And my proud stomach teach
That less than highest is good, and may be high.
And even walk in life's uneven way, Though to have dreamt of flight and not to fly Be strange and sad, Is not a boon that's given to all who pray.
If this I had I'd envy none! Nay, trod I straight for one Year, month or week, Should Heaven withdraw, and Satan me amerce Of power and joy, still would I seek Another victory with a like reverse; Because the good of victory does not die, As dies the failure's curse, And what we have to gain Is, not one battle, but a weary life's campaign.
Yet meaner lot being sent Should more than me content; Yea, if I lie Among vile shards, though born for silver wings, In the strong flight and feathers gold Of whatsoever heavenward mounts and sings I must by admiration so comply That there I should my own delight behold.
Yea, though I sin each day times seven, And dare not lift the fearfullest eyes to Heaven, Thanks must I give Because that seven times are not eight or nine, And that my darkness is all mine, And that I live Within this oak-shade one more minute even, Hearing the winds their Maker magnify.


by Coventry Patmore | |

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; 
Because her womanhood is such
That, as on court-days subjects kiss 
The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch 
Affirms no mean familiarness; 
Nay, rather marks more fair the height 
Which can with safety so neglect 
To dread, as lower ladies might, 
That grace could meet with disrespect; 
Thus she with happy favour feeds 
Allegiance from a love so high 
That thence no false conceit proceeds 
Of difference bridged, or state put by; 
Because although in act and word 
As lowly as a wife can be, 
Her manners, when they call me lord, 
Remind me 'tis by courtesy; 
Not with her least consent of will, 
Which would my proud affection hurt, 
But by the noble style that still 
Imputes an unattain'd desert; 
Because her gay and lofty brows, 
When all is won which hope can ask, 
Reflect a light of hopeless snows 
That bright in virgin ether bask; 
Because, though free of the outer court 
I am, this Temple keeps its shrine 
Sacred to Heaven; because, in short, 
She 's not and never can be mine.


More great poems below...

by Coventry Patmore | |

The Revelation

 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.
Love wakes men, once a lifetime each; They lift their heavy lids, and look; And, lo, what one sweet page can teach, They read with joy, then shut the book.
And some give thanks, and some blaspheme And most forget; but, either way, That and the Child's unheeded dream Is all the light of all their day.


by Coventry Patmore | |

The Spirits 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.
The day of days was not the day; That went before, or was postponed; The night Death took our lamp away Was not the night on which we groan'd.
I drew my bride, beneath the moon, Across my threshold; happy hour! But, ah, the walk that afternoon We saw the water-flags in flower!


by Coventry Patmore | |

The Toys

 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, A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach, And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells, And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I pray'd To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 'I will be sorry for their childishness.
'


by Coventry Patmore | |

Unthrift

 Ah, wasteful woman, she who may 
On her sweet self set her own price, 
Knowing men cannot choose but pay, 
How she has cheapen'd paradise; 
How given for nought her priceless gift, 
How spoil'd the bread and spill'd the wine, 
Which, spent with due, respective thrift, 
Had made brutes men, and men divine.


by Coventry Patmore | |

Loves Reality

 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; 
I've lived to feel how pride may part 
Spirits, tho' matched like hand and glove; 
I've blushed for love's abode, the heart; 
But have not disbelieved in love; 
Nor unto love, sole mortal thing 
Or worth immortal, done the wrong 
To count it, with the rest that sing, 
Unworthy of a serious song; 
And love is my reward: for now, 
When most of dead'ning time complain, 
The myrtle blooms upon my brow, 
Its odour quickens all my brain.


by Coventry Patmore | |

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, 
Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town, 
I sit me down.
For want of me the world's course will not fail: When all its work is done, the lie shall rot; The truth is great, and shall prevail, When none cares whether it prevail or not.


by Coventry Patmore | |

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.
The foolish hie them post-haste through, See fashions odd, and prospects fair, Learn of the language, "How d'ye do," And go and brag they have been there.
The most for leave to trade apply, For once, at Empire's seat, her heart, Then get what knowledge ear and eye Glean chancewise in the life-long mart.
And certain others, few and fit, Attach them to the Court, and see The Country's best, its accent hit, And partly sound its polity.