The Angel in the Cloud

by Edwin W. Fuller

Let each component part be now destroyed,
And see if still you love him. As a man,
He plunges into vice of vilest kinds;
His bright reflections on yourself are gone,
And people think the worse of you, for him;
You never smile, but frown, upon him now,
But still you love him dearly! To his vice
He adds a crime, a foul and blasting crime;
Your pride is gone, you feel a bitter shame,
A score of opposites to love creep in;
A righteous anger at his foolish sins,
A just contempt for nature, weak as his;
But yet you love him fondly, for the world
Is lauding you for “mother’s holy love”;
And you delight its clinging strength to show,
You gain in public credit by your woes,
And get the soothing martyr’s sympathy.
But let him still grow worse, and sink so low,
That people say you are disgraced through him,
Your warmest friends will not acquaintance own,
Your love for such an object’s ridiculed,
And gains respect from none. Your only chance
Is to disown him. How you loud proclaim,
“He’s not my child but by the accident
Of birth!”
Do yet you love him in your heart?
This then because you think yourself so good,
So heaven-like, for loving him disgraced,
You go to see him in the shameful jail;
He spits upon, and beats you from his cell,
And tells you that he hates your very name.
Now all your love is gone, except the glow
Of pity for him chained to dungeon floor;
But he’s released, and deeper goes in crime;
Then, lastly, Pity yields. Your heart is stone!

But love was only touched in selfish part,
Yet should you still deny your love is self’s;
Of several children, do you not love most
The one whose conduct pleases most yourself?
But love, unselfish, never could be moved
By anything affecting self alone.

The throbbing hearts of lovers beat for self,
And this I’ll prove, though Pyramus may vow
He has no thought but Thisbe.
Take away
Love’s sensual part, which is an appetite,
And therefore selfish, by its Nature’s law;
And what remains is, first, a slight conceit
At our discernment in the choice we’ve made,
And then a pride that we have won the prize;
A pride, that some one thinks we are the best;
A pleasure in her presence, too, we feel,
Because in every look she manifests
Her preference for us. This is flattering
Beyond all else that we have ever known.
A friend may raise our self-esteem, indeed,
By showing constantly his own esteem,
But never can man’s vanity receive
A higher tribute than a woman’s love!
This tribute, we, of course, reciprocate,
And when together, we increase self-love
By mutual words expressing our regard.
Yet when our love is deepest, if we find
Our Self is not so worshipped as we thought,
Our love grows cold; and when we are not loved
We cease to love. To illustrate permit:

You’re on the topmost wave of fervid love—
A wilder flame than poets ever sung;
You’ve passed the timid declaration’s bounds,
And revel in a full assured return.
There is no need for check upon your heart,
It has full leave to pour its gushing tide
Of feeling forth, and meet responsive floods.
You meet her in the parlor’s solitude,
No meddling eye to watch the sacred scene.
The purple curtains hang their corded folds
Before the tell-tale windows; closed the door,
And sealed with softest list. The rich divan
Is drawn before the ruddy grate that glows
With red between the bars, and blue above.
You sit beside The Angel of your dreams,
And gaze in adoration. What a form!
Revealed in faultless symmetry by robes
Of rare, exquisite elegance, and taste,
That fit the tap’ring waist and arching neck.
And how superbly flow the torrents of her hair!
Which she has shaken loose, because “it’s you”;
Her great brown eyes that gaze so dreamily
Upon the flowers of the vellum-screen
That wards the fire from her tinted cheek!
One hollow foot, in dainty, bronze bootee,
Tapping the tufted lion on the rug;
A snowy hand with blazing solitaire—
The pledge of your betrothal—nestling soft
Within your own.
And thus you sit, and breathe
With tones so soft, because the ear’s so near,
The mutual confidence of little cares;
And how you longed for months to tell your love,
But feared a cold rebuke; and how you dared
To hope through all the gloom; and how you grieved
At every favor shown to other men;
How now the clouds have flown away,
And all is brightness, joy, and tender love.
Then drawing nearer, round the slender waist
You pass an arm; and nestling cheek to cheek,
Palm throbbing palm, you hush all useless words,
And thought meets thought, in silent love.
And now and then, you leave the cheek, to kiss
The coral lips; yet not with transient touch,
But with a fervid, lingering pressure there,
As if you longed to force the lips apart,
And drink the soul; while both her melting orbs
Are drooped beneath your burning inch-near eyes.
The parting hour must come. The good-night said,
You rise to leave; and turning, at the door,
You see her head drooped on the sofa’s arm,
You fancy she is sighing that you’re gone;
And stealing back on tiptoe, gently raise
The beauteous face, and take it ’twixt your palms;
And gazing on the features radiant,
Distorted queerly by your pressing hands,
You feel that life, the parting cannot bear,
That you must stay forever there, or die!
Another effort, one more nectar sip,
You rush from out the room, and slam the door,
Just on the steps, you meet your rival’s face.
He has an easy confidence, and walks
Into the house, as if it were his own.
Poor fellow! how you really pity him!
You can afford to be magnanimous,
And deprecate his certain, cruel fate.
You murmur: “Well, he brings it on himself,”
And turn to go. The window’s near the ground,
And slightly raised. Although you know it’s mean,
You cannot now resist, but creep up near,
And with a finger part the curtain’s fringe.
You see your darling run across the room
With both extended hands, and hear her say:
“Oh Fred! I am so very glad you’ve come,
I feared that stupid thing would never leave,
I had to let him take my hand awhile,
And mumble over it, to get him off.”

You grasp the iron railing for support,
And, faint and dizzy with the agony
Of love’s departure, cling till all has fled;
Then stagger home without a trace of love.
Yet only Self is touched; her beauty’s there,
Her sparkling wit, and her intelligence,
Her manner even, towards you, has not changed,
And, were you with her, she would be the same.
Love’s every motive disappeared with Self,
No pride of conquest, no romance of thought;
You meet no sympathy, but ridicule!

A mother’s love may last through injury,
Because it reaps the self’s reward of praise
For constancy, through wrong. The lover’s flame.
Unless supplied with fuel-self, dies out,
For, burning, ’twould deserve supreme contempt.

The less affairs of life are traced to Self.
The code of Etiquette, that Chesterfield
Defines “Benevolence in little things,”
Is but a scheme to give Self consciousness
Of excellence in breeding, and to keep
“Our Circle” sep’rate by its shibboleth.
The stately bow, the graceful sip of wine,
The useless little finger’s dainty crook
In lifting up the fragile Sevres cup,
The holding of the hat in morning calls,
The touch of it when passing through the streets,
The drawing of a glove, the use of cane—
Our every act is coupled with the thought
How well Self does all this.

Our very words
Are used to gratify the self. Men talk
By preference, for they judge their words
Will gain them more applause than listening.
But if attention yields more fruit to Self,
How patiently they hear the longest tale,
And laugh in glee at its insipid close!
If with superiors, we attend, because
Attention pleases more with them than words;
But if inferiors, we must talk the most,
Since their attention flatters us so much.
The cause of converse, Self, is oftenest food.
How few the talks that are not spiced with “I,”
What “I” can do, or did or will!

Sometimes,
The Self is held, on purpose, up for jest;
As when men tell a joke upon themselves.
But here the shame of conduct or mishap
Is more than balanced by the hearty laugh,
Which gives its pleasant witness to our wit.
We never tell what will present ourselves
In such an aspect laughter cannot heal;
Although it compliments our telling powers.

Attentions to the fair, but seek for Self
Their smiles of favor. Little deeds of love
To those around us, look for their reward.
The youth polite, who gives his chair to Age,
“Without a thought of Self,” is yet provoked,
If Age do not evince, by nod or smile,
His obligation to that unthought Self.