Coventry Patmore

(23 July 1823 - 26 November 1896 / Essex, England)

Coventry Patmore Poems

41. Mignonne 4/14/2010
42. Olympus 4/14/2010
43. Eros 4/14/2010
44. Semele 4/14/2010
45. The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto Ix. 4/14/2010
46. King Cophetua The First 4/14/2010
47. The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto Iii. 4/14/2010
48. The Angel In The House. Book Ii. The Prologue. 4/14/2010
49. The Unknown Eros. Book I. 4/14/2010
50. The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto I. 4/14/2010
51. L’allegro 4/14/2010
52. An Idyll 4/14/2010
53. Alexander And Lycon 4/14/2010
54. The Unknown Eros 4/14/2010
55. The Year 4/14/2010
56. A Dream 4/14/2010
57. A Retrospect 4/14/2010
58. The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto Ii. 4/14/2010
59. The Woodman’s Daughter 4/14/2010
60. The After-Glow 4/14/2010
61. Stars And Moon 4/14/2010
62. Unthrift 1/3/2003
63. Amelia 4/14/2010
64. The Revelation 1/3/2003
65. Faint Yet Pursuing 1/3/2003
66. The Spirit's Depths 1/3/2003
67. The Foreign Land 1/3/2003
68. 'If I Were Dead' 1/4/2003
69. Deliciae Sapientiae De Amore 1/3/2003
70. The Kiss 1/3/2003
71. The Married Lover 1/3/2003
72. A Farewell 1/3/2003
73. A London Fête 4/14/2010
74. Magna Est Veritas 1/3/2003
75. Departure 1/3/2003
76. Love's Reality 1/3/2003
77. The Toys 1/3/2003
Best Poem of 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 ...

Read the full of The Toys

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.

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