experience of this time, vibrates with a poignancy almost insufferable. Wakened by the perfume of his wife's azalea flower, and momentarily oblivious of his loss, the poet suffers a strange repetitional agony:
At dawn I dream'd, O God, that she was dead,
And groaned aloud upon my wretched bed,
And waked, ah God, and did not waken her,
But lay, with eyes still closed,
Perfectly bless'd in the delicious sphere
By which I knew so well that she was near,
My heart to speechless thankfulness composed.
Till 'gan to stir
A dizzy somewhat in my troubled head—
It was the azalea's breath, and she was dead!
The warm night had the lingering buds disclosed,
And I had fall'n asleep with to my breast
A chance-found letter press'd
In which she said,
"So, till to-morrow eve, my Own, adieu!
Parting's well paid with soon again to meet,
Soon in your arms to feel so small and sweet,
Sweet to myself that am so sweet to you!"
Almost equally pathetic were Patmore's efforts to be "mother and father, too," to his six young children, his impatience at infantine perversity, and the bitter self-accusings which followed. One of the best known among his shorter odes, "The Toys," traces its source back to the rocky path of those sad days. Rocky enough in all truth it was, yet upon its way one flower blossomed into bloom—Emily Honoria, the poet's eldest daughter—rising as best she might to be care-taker of the little family, companion and confidante to the father himself.
Coventry Patrnore's own health had become so much impaired by the long strain of anxiety and
