Man must be pleased;
but him to please
Is woman's pleasure;
down the gulf
Of his condoled necessities
She casts her best, she flings herself.
How often flings for nought, and yokes
Her heart to an icicle or whim,
Whose each impatient word provokes
Another, not from her, but him;
While she, too gentle even to force
His 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.
Excerto do Poema "Angel in the house" de Coventry Patmore (1823-1896)
"E quando estava a escrever esta crítica, descobri que se quisesse dedicar-me à crítica literária, teria de lutar contra um certo fantasma. O fantasma era uma mulher, e quando comecei a conhecê-la melhor, chamei-lhe, segundo a heroína de um famoso poema, O Anjo na Casa. Era ela que se vinha entrepor entre o mim e o papel quando eu estava a escrever as críticas. Era ela que me incomodava e me fazia perder tempo, e tanto me atormentava, que acabei por a matar."
Virginia Woolf, Professions for Women
