The Angel in the House”Man must be pleased; but him to pleaseIs woman’s pleasure; down the gulfOf his condoled necessitiesShe casts her best, she flings herself.How often flings for nought, and yokesHer heart to an icicle or whim,Whose each impatient word provokesAnother, not from her, but him;While she, too gentle even to forceHis penitence by kind replies,Waits by, expecting his remorse,With pardon in her pitying eyes;And if he once, by shame oppress’d,A comfortable word confers,She leans and weeps against his breast,And seems to think the sin was hers;Or any eye to see her charms,At any time, she’s still his wife,Dearly devoted to his arms;She loves with love that cannot tire;And when, ah woe, she loves alone,Through passionate duty love springs higher,As grass grows taller round a stone. ― Coventry Patmore

The Angel in the House”Man must be pleased; but him to pleaseIs woman’s pleasure; down the gulfOf his condoled necessitiesShe casts her best, she flings herself.How often flings for nought, and yokesHer heart to an icicle or whim,Whose each impatient word provokesAnother, not from her, but him;While she, too gentle even to forceHis penitence by kind replies,Waits by, expecting his remorse,With pardon in her pitying eyes;And if he once, by shame oppress’d,A comfortable word confers,She leans and weeps against his breast,And seems to think the sin was hers;Or any eye to see her charms,At any time, she’s still his wife,Dearly devoted to his arms;She loves with love that cannot tire;And when, ah woe, she loves alone,Through passionate duty love springs higher,As grass grows taller round a stone.
― Coventry Patmore

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