(1) OF writing many books there is no
end;
1
(2) And I who have written much in
prose and verse
(3) For others’ uses, will write now
for mine,—
(4) Will write my story for my better
self
(5) As when you paint your portrait for
a friend,
(6) Who keeps it in a drawer and looks
at it
(7) Long after he has ceased to love
you, just
(8) To hold together what he was and
is.
(9) I, writing thus, am still what men
call young;
2
(10) I have not so far left the coasts
of life
(11) To travel inland, that I cannot
hear
(12) That murmur of the outer Infinite
3
(13) Which unweaned babies smile at in
their sleep
(14) When wondered at for smiling; not
so far,
(15) But still I catch my mother at her
post
(16) Beside the nursery-door, with
finger up,
(17) “Hush, hush—here’s too much
noise!” while her sweet eyes
(18) Leap forward, taking part against
her word
(19) In the child’s riot. Still I sit
and feel
(20) My father’s slow hand, when she
had left us both,
(21) Stroke out my childish curls
across his knee
(22) And hear Assunta’s daily jest
(she knew
(23) He liked it better than a better
jest).
(24) Inquire how many golden scudi went
4
(25) To make such ringlets. O my
father’s hand,
(26) Stroke heavily, heavily the poor
hair down,
(27) Draw, press the child’s head
closer to thy knee!
(28) I’m still too young, too young, to
sit alone
(29) I write. My mother was a
Florentine,'
5
(30) Whose rare blue eyes were shut
from seeing me
(31) When scarcely I was four years
old, my life
(32) A poor spark snatched up from a
failing lamp
(33) Which went out therefore. She was
weak and frail;
(34) She could not bear the joy of
giving life,
(35) The mother’s rapture slew
her.
6 If her kiss
(36) Had left a longer weight upon my
lips
(37) It might have steadied the uneasy
breath,
(38) And reconciled and fraternised my
soul
(39) With the new order. As it was,
indeed,
(40) I felt a mother-want about the
world,
(41) And still went seeking, like a
bleating lamb
(42) Left out at night in shutting up
the fold,—
(43) As restless as a nest-deserted
bird
(44) Grown chill through something
being away, though what
(45) It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was
born
(46) To make my father sadder, and
myself
(47) Not overjoyous, truly. Women
know
(48) The way to rear up children, (to
be just)
(49) They know a simple, merry, tender
knack
(50) Of tying sashes, fitting
baby-shoes,
(51) And stringing pretty words that
make no sense,
(52) And kissing full sense into empty
words,
(53) Which things are corals to cut
life upon,
7
(54) Although such trifles: children
learn by such,
(55) Love’s holy earnest in a pretty
play
(56) And get not over-early
solemnised,
(57) But seeing, as in a rose-bush,
Love’s Divine
(58) Which burns and hurts not,
8 —not a single bloom,—
(59) Become aware and unafraid of
Love.
(60) Such good do mothers. Fathers love
as well
(61) —Mine did, I know,—but still with
heavier brains,
9
(62) And wills more consciously
responsible,
(63) And not as wisely, since less
foolishly;
(64) So mothers have God’s licence to
be missed.
(65) My father was an austere
Englishman,
(66) Who, after a dry life-time spent
at home
(67) In college-learning, law, and
parish talk,
(68) Was flooded with a passion
unaware,
(69) His whole provisioned and
complacent past
(70) Drowned out from him that moment.
As he stood
(71) In Florence, where he had come to
spend a month
(72) And note the secret of Da Vinci’s
drains,
10
(73) He musing somewhat absently
perhaps
(74) Some English question . . whether
men should pay
(75) The unpopular but necessary
tax
(76) With left or right hand
11 —in the alien sun
(77) In that great square of the
Santissima
(78) There drifted past him (scarcely
marked enough
(79) To move his comfortable island
scorn)
(80) A train of priestly banners,
12 cross and psalm,
(81) The white-veiled rose-crowned
maidens holding up
(82) Tall tapers, weighty for such
wrists, aslant
(83) To the blue luminous tremor of the
air,
(84) And letting drop the white wax as
they went
(85) To eat the bishop’s wafer at the
church;
(86) From which long trail of chanting
priests and girls,
(87) A face flashed like a cymbal on
his face
(88) And shook with silent clangour
brain and heart,
(89) Transfiguring him to music. Thus,
even thus,
(90) He too received his sacramental
gift
(91) With eucharistic meanings;
13 for he loved.
(92) And thus beloved, she died. I’ve
heard it said
(93) That but to see him in the first
surprise
(94) Of widower and father, nursing
me,
(95) Unmothered little child of four
years old,
(96) His large man’s hands afraid to
touch my curls,
(97) As if the gold would tarnish,—his
grave lips
(98) Contriving such a miserable
smile
(99) As if he knew needs must, or I
should die,
(100) And yet ’twas hard,—would almost
make the stones
(101) Cry out for pity.
14 There’s a verse he set
(102) In Santa Croce
15 to her memory,—
(103) “Weep for an infant too young to
weep much
(104) When death removed this
mother”—stops the mirth
(105) To-day on women’s faces when they
walk
(106) With rosy children hanging on
their gowns,
(107) Under the cloister to escape the
sun
(108) That scorches in the piazza.
After which
(109) He left our Florence and made
haste to hide
(110) Himself, his prattling child, and
silent grief,
(111) Among the mountains above
Pelago;
16
(112) Because unmothered babes, he
thought, had need
(113) Of mother nature more than others
use,
(114) And Pan’s white goats, with
udders warm and full
(115) Of mystic contemplations,
17 come to feed
(116) Poor milkless lips of orphans
like his own—
(117) Such scholar-scraps he talked,
I’ve heard from friends,
(118) For even prosaic men who wear
grief long
(119) Will get to wear it as a hat
aside
(120) With a flower stuck in’t. Father,
then, and child,
(121) We lived among the mountains many
years,
(122) God’s silence on the outside of
the house,
(123) And we who did not speak too loud
within,
(124) And old Assunta to make up the
fire,
(125) Crossing herself whene’er a
sudden flame
(126) Which lightened from the
firewood, made alive
(127) That picture of my mother on the
wall.
(128) The painter drew it after she
was dead,
(129) And when the face was finished,
throat and hands,
(130) Her cameriera
18 carried him, in hate
(131) Of the English-fashioned shroud,
the last brocade
(132) She dressed in at the Pitti;
19 “he should paint
(133) No sadder thing than that,” she
swore, “to wrong
(134) Her poor signora.” Therefore very
strange
(135) The effect was. I, a little
child, would crouch
(136) For hours upon the floor with
knees drawn up,
(137) And gaze across them, half in
terror, half
(138) In adoration, at the picture
there,—
(139) That swan-like supernatural white
life
(140) Just sailing upward from the red
stiff silk
(141) Which seemed to have no part in
it nor power
(142) To keep it from quite breaking
out of bounds.
(143) For hours I sate and stared.
Assunta’s awe
(144) And my poor father’s melancholy
eyes
(145) Still pointed that way. That way
went my thoughts
(146) When wandering beyond sight. And
as I grew
(147) In years, I mixed, confused,
unconsciously,
(148) Whatever I last read or heard or
dreamed,
(149) Abhorrent, admirable,
beautiful,
(150) Pathetical, or ghastly, or
grotesque,
(151) With still that face . . . which
did not therefore change,
(152) But kept the mystic level of all
forms
(153) Hates, fears, and admirations,
was by turns
(154) Ghost, fiend, and angel, fairy,
witch, and sprite,
20
(155) A dauntless Muse who eyes a
dreadful Fate,
21
(156) A loving Psyche
22 who loses sight of
Love,
(157) A still Medusa with mild milky
brows
(158) All curdled and all clothed upon
with snakes
23
(159) Whose slime falls fast as sweat
will; or anon
(160) Our Lady of the Passion, stabbed
with swords
(161) here the Babe sucked;
24 or Lamia
25 in her first
(162) Moonlighted pallor, ere she
shrunk and blinked
(163) And shuddering wriggled down to
the unclean;
(164) Or my own mother, leaving her
last smile
(165) In her last kiss upon the
baby-mouth
(166) My father pushed down on the bed
for that,—
(167) Or my dead mother, without smile
or kiss,
(168) Buried at Florence. All which
images,
(169) Concentred on the picture,
glassed themselves
(170) Before my meditative childhood,
as
(171) The incoherencies of change and
death
(172) Are represented fully, mixed and
merged,
(173) In the smooth fair mystery of
perpetual Life.
(174) And while I stared away my
childish wits
(175) Upon my mother’s picture, (ah,
poor child!)
(176) My father, who through love had
suddenly
(177) Thrown off the old conventions,
broken loose
(178) From chin-bands of the soul, like
Lazarus,
26
(179) Yet had no time to learn to talk
and walk
(180) Or grow anew familiar with the
sun,—
(181) Who had reached to freedom, not
to action, lived,
(182) But lived as one entranced, with
thoughts, not aims,—
(183) Whom love had unmade from a
common man
(184) But not completed to an uncommon
man,—
(185) My father taught me what he had
learnt the best
(186) Before he died and left me,—grief
and love.
(187) And, seeing we had books among
the hills,
(188) Strong words of counselling souls
confederate
(189) With vocal pines and waters,—out
of books
(190) He taught me all the ignorance of
men,
(191) And how God laughs in heaven when
any man
(192) Says “Here I’m learned; this, I
understand;
(193) In that, I am never caught at
fault or doubt.”
(194) He sent the schools to school,
demonstrating
(195) A fool will pass for such through
one mistake,
(196) While a philosopher will pass for
such,
(197) Through said mistakes being
ventured in the gross
(198) And heaped up to a system.
27 (198) I am like,
(199) They tell me, my dear father.
Broader brows
(200) Howbeit, upon a slenderer
undergrowth
(201) Of delicate features,—paler, near
as grave;
(202) But then my mother’s smile breaks
up the whole,
(203) And makes it better sometimes
than itself.
(204) So, nine full years, our days
were hid with God
(205) Among his mountains: I was just
thirteen,
(206) Still growing like the plants
from unseen roots
(207) In tongue-tied Springs,—and
suddenly awoke
(208) To full life and life’s needs
and agonies
(209) With an intense, strong,
struggling heart beside
(210) A stone-dead father. Life, struck
sharp on death,
(211) Makes awful lightning. His last
word was, “Love⎯”
(212) “Love, my child, love,
love!”—(then he had done with grief)
(213) “Love, my child.” Ere I answered
he was gone,
(214) And none was left to love in all
the world.
(215) There, ended childhood. What
succeeded next
(216) I recollect as, after fevers,
men
(217) Thread back the passage of
delirium,
(218) Missing the turn still, baffled
by the door;
(219) Smooth endless days, notched here
and there with knives;
(220) A weary, wormy darkness, spurred
i’ the flank
(221) With flame, that it should eat
and end itself
(222) Like some tormented
scorpion.
28 Then at last
(223) I do remember clearly, how there
came
(225) (I thought not) who commanded,
caught me up
(226) From old Assunta’s neck; how,
with a shriek,
(227) She let me go,—while I, with ears
too full
(228) Of my father’s silence, to shriek
back a word,
(229) In all a child’s astonishment at
grief
(230) Stared at the wharf-edge where
she stood and moaned,
(231) My poor Assunta, where she stood
and moaned!
(232) The white walls, the blue hills,
my Italy,
(233) Drawn backward from the
shuddering steamer-deck,
(234) Like one in anger drawing back
her skirts
(235) Which suppliants catch at. Then
the bitter sea
(236) Inexorably pushed between us
both,
(237) And sweeping up the ship with my
despair
(238) Threw us out as a pasture to the
stars.
(239) Ten nights and days we voyaged on
the deep;
(240) Ten nights and days without the
common face
(241) Of any day or night; the moon and
sun
(242) Cut off from the green
reconciling earth,
(243) To starve into a blind
ferocity
(244) And glare unnatural; the very
sky
(245) (Dropping its bell-net down upon
the sea
(246) As if no human heart should
’scape alive,)
(247) Bedraggled with the desolating
salt,
(248) Until it seemed no more that holy
heaven
(249) To which my father went. All new
and strange;
(250) The universe turned stranger, for
a child.
(251) Then, land!—then, England! oh,
the frosty cliffs
(252) Looked cold upon me. Could I find
a home
(253) Among those mean red houses
through the fog?
(254) And when I heard my father’s
language first
(255) From alien lips which had no kiss
for mine
(256) I wept aloud, then laughed, then
wept, then wept,
(257) And some one near me said the
child was mad
(258) Through much sea-sickness. The
train swept us on.
(259) Was this my father’s England? the
great isle?
(260) The ground seemed cut up from the
fellowship
(261) Of verdure, field from field, as
man from man;
(262) The skies themselves looked low
and positive,
(263) As almost you could touch them
with a hand,
(264) And dared to do it they were so
far off
(265) From God’s celestial
crystals;
29 all things blurred
(266) And dull and vague. Did
Shakespeare and his mates
(267) Absorb the light here?—not a
hill or stone
(268) With heart to strike a radiant
colour up
(269) Or active outline on the
indifferent air.
(270) I think I see my father’s sister
stand
(271) Upon the hall-step of her
country-house
(272) To give me welcome. She stood
straight and calm,
(273) Her somewhat narrow forehead
braided tight
(274) As if for taming accidental
thoughts
(275) From possible pulses; brown hair
pricked with gray
(276) By frigid use of life, (she was
not old
(277) Although my father’s elder by a
year)
(278) A nose drawn sharply, yet in
delicate lines;
(279) A close mild mouth, a little
soured about
(280) The ends, through speaking
unrequited loves
(281) Or peradventure niggardly
half-truths;
(282) Eyes of no colour,—once they
might have smiled,
(283) But never, never have forgot
themselves
(284) In smiling; cheeks, in which was
yet a rose
(285) Of perished summers, like a rose
in a book,
(286) Kept more for ruth than
pleasure,—if past bloom,
(287) Past fading also.
(287) She had lived, we’ll
say,
(288) A harmless life, she called a
virtuous life,
(289) A quiet life, which was not life
at all,
(290) (But that, she had not lived
enough to know)
(291) Between the vicar and the county
squires,
(292) The lord-lieutenant
30 looking down sometimes
(293) From the empyrean
31 to assure their souls
(294) Against chance-vulgarisms, and,
in the abyss
(295) The apothecary,
32 looked on once a year
(296) To prove their soundness of
humility.
(297) The poor-club exercised her
Christian gifts
(298) Of knitting stockings, stitching
petticoats,
(299) Because we are of one flesh
33 after all
(300) And need one flannel (with a
proper sense
(301) Of difference in the quality)—and
still
(302) The book-club, guarded from your
modern trick
(303) Of shaking dangerous questions
from the crease,
(304) Preserved her intellectual.
34 She had lived
(305) A sort of cage-bird life,
35 born in a cage,
(306) Accounting that to leap from
perch to perch
(307) Was act and joy enough for any
bird.
(308) Dear heaven, how silly are the
things that live
(309) In thickets, and eat
berries!
(309) "I,
alas,
(310) A wild bird scarcely fledged, was
brought to her cage,
(311) And she was there to meet me.
Very kind.
(312) Bring the clean water, give out
the fresh seed.
(313) She stood upon the steps to
welcome me,
(314) Calm, in black garb. I clung
about her neck,—
(315) Young babes, who catch at every
shred of wool
(316) To draw the new light closer,
catch and cling
(317) Less blindly. In my ears, my
father’s word
(318) Hummed ignorantly, as the sea in
shells,
(319) “Love, love, my child.” She,
black there with my grief,
(320) Might feel my love—she was his
sister once,
(321) I clung to her. A moment she
seemed moved,
(322) Kissed me with cold lips,
suffered me to cling,
(323) And drew me feebly through the
hall into
(324) The room she sate in.
(324) There, with some strange
spasm
(325) Of pain and passion, she wrung
loose my hands
(326) Imperiously, and held me at arm’s
length,
(327) And with two grey-steel
naked-bladed eyes
(328) Searched through my face,—ay,
stabbed it through and through,
(329) Through brows and cheeks and
chin, as if to find
(330) A wicked murderer in my innocent
face,
(331) If not here, there perhaps. Then,
drawing breath,
(332) She struggled for her ordinary
calm
(333) And missed it rather,—told me not
to shrink,
(334) As if she had told me not to lie
or swear,—
(335) “She loved my father and would
love me too
(336) As long as I deserved it.” Very
kind.
(337) I understood her meaning
afterward;
(338) She thought to find my mother in
my face,
(339) And questioned it for that. For
she, my aunt,
(340) Had loved my father truly, as
she could,
(341) And hated, with the gall of
gentle souls,
(342) My Tuscan mother who had fooled
away
(343) A wise man from wise courses, a
good man
(344) From obvious duties, and,
depriving her,
(345) His sister, of the household
precedence,
(346) Had wronged his tenants, robbed
his native land,
(347) And made him mad, alike by life
and death,
(348) In love and sorrow. She had pored
for years
(349) What sort of woman could be
suitable
(350) To her sort of hate, to entertain
it with,
(351) And so, her very curiosity
(352) Became hate too, and all the
idealism
(353) She ever used in life, was used
for hate,
(354) Till hate, so nourished, did
exceed at last
(355) The love from which it grew, in
strength and heat,
(356) And wrinkled her smooth
conscience with a sense
(357) Of disputable virtue (say not,
sin)
(358) When Christian doctrine was
enforced at church.
(359) And thus my father’s sister was
to me
(360) My mother’s hater. From that day,
she did
(361) Her duty to me, (I appreciate
it
(362) In her own word as spoken to
herself)
(363) Her duty, in large measure,
well-pressed out,
(364) But measured always.
36 She was generous,
bland,
(365) More courteous than was tender,
gave me still
(366) The first place,—as if fearful
that God’s saints
(367) Would look down suddenly and say,
“Herein
(368) You missed a point, I think,
through lack of love.”
(369) Alas, a mother never is
afraid
(370) Of speaking angerly to any
child,
(371) Since love, she knows, is
justified of love.
(372) And I, I was a good child on the
whole,
(373) A meek and manageable child. Why
not?
(374) I did not live, to have the
faults of life:
(375) There seemed more true life in my
father’s grave
(376) Than in all England. Since that
threw me off
(377) Who fain would cleave, (his
latest will, they say,
(378) Consigned me to his land) I only
thought
(379) Of lying quiet there where I was
thrown
(380) Like sea-weed on the rocks, and
suffering her
(381) To prick me to a pattern with her
pin
(382) Fibre from fibre, delicate leaf
from leaf,
(383) And dry out from my drowned
anatomy
(384) The last sea-salt left in
me.
(384) So it
was.
(385) I broke the copious curls upon my
head
(386) In braids, because she liked
smooth-ordered hair.
(387) I left off saying my sweet Tuscan
words
(388) Which still at any stirring of
the heart
(389) Came up to float across the
English phrase
(390) As lilies, (Bene or Che
che,)
37 because
(391) She liked my father’s child to
speak his tongue.
(392) I learnt the collects and the
catechism,
38
(393) The creeds, from Athanasius back
to Nice,
39
(394) The Articles,
40 the Tracts
against the times,
41
(395) (By no means Buonaventure’s
‘Prick of Love,’)
42
(396) And various popular synopses
of
(397) Inhuman doctrines never taught by
John,
(398) Because she liked instructed
piety.
(399) I learnt my complement of classic
French
(400) (Kept pure of Balzac
43 and neologism)
(401) And German also, since she liked
a range
(402) Of liberal education,—tongues,
not books.
(403) I learnt a little algebra, a
little
(404) Of the mathematics,—brushed with
extreme flounce
(405) The circle of the sciences,
because
(406) She misliked women who are
frivolous.
(407) I learnt the royal
genealogies
(408) Of Oviedo,
44 the internal laws
(409) Of the Burmese empire,
45 —by how many feet
(410) Mount Chimborazo outsoars
Teneriffe,
46
(411) What navigable river joins
itself
(412) To Lara,
47 and what census of the year five
(413) Was taken at Klagenfurt,
48 —because she liked
(414) A general insight into useful
facts.
(415) I learnt much music,—such as
would have been
(416) As quite impossible in Johnson’s
day
49
(417) As still it might be wished—fine
sleights of hand
(418) And unimagined fingering,
shuffling off
(419) The hearer’s soul through
hurricanes of notes
(420) To a noisy Tophet;
50 and I drew . .
costumes
(421) From French engravings, nereids
neatly draped,
(422) (With smirks of simmering
godship)—I washed in
(423) Landscapes from nature (rather
say, washed out).
(424) I danced the polka and
Cellarius,
51
(425) Spun glass, stuffed birds, and
modelled flowers in wax,
(426) Because she liked accomplishments
in girls.
(427) I read a score of books on
womanhood
52
(428) To prove, if women do not think
at all,
(429) They may teach thinking, (to a
maiden-aunt
(430) Or else the author)—books that
boldly assert
(431) Their right of comprehending
husband’s talk
(432) When not too deep, and even of
answering
(433) With pretty “may it please you,”
or “so it is,”—
(434) Their rapid insight and fine
aptitude,
(435) Particular worth and general
missionariness,
(436) As long as they keep quiet by the
fire
(437) And never say “no” when the world
says “ay,”
(438) For that is fatal,—their angelic
reach
(439) Of virtue, chiefly used to sit
and darn,
(440) And fatten household
sinners,—their, in brief,
(441) Potential faculty in
everything
(442) Of abdicating power in it: she
owned
(443) She liked a woman to be
womanly,
(444) And English women, she thanked
God and sighed,
(445) (Some people always sigh in
thanking God)
(446) Were models to the universe. And
last
(447) I learnt cross-stitch, because
she did not like
(448) To see me wear the night with
empty hands
(449) A-doing nothing. So, my
shepherdess
(450) Was something after all, (the
pastoral saints
(451) Be praised for’t) leaning
lovelorn with pink eyes
(452) To match her shoes, when I
mistook the silks;
(453) Her head uncrushed by that round
weight of hat
(454) So strangely similar to the
tortoise-shell
(455) Which slew the tragic poet.
53 (455) By the way,
(456) The works of women are
symbolical.
(457) We sew, sew, prick our fingers,
dull our sight,
(458) Producing what? A pair of
slippers, sir,
(459) To put on when you’re weary—or a
stool
(460) To stumble over and vex you . .
“curse that stool!”
(461) Or else at best, a cushion, where
you lean
(462) And sleep, and dream of something
we are not
(463) But would be for your sake. Alas,
alas!
(464) This hurts most, this—that, after
all, we are paid
(465) The worth of our work,
perhaps.
(465) In
looking down
(466) Those years of education (to
return)
(467) I wonder if Brinvilliers suffered
more
(468) In the water-torture,
54 . . flood succeeding
flood
(469) To drench the incapable throat
and split the veins .
(470) Than I did. Certain of your
feebler souls
(471) Go out in such a process; many
pine
(472) To a sick, inodorous light; my
own endured:
(473) I had relations in the Unseen,
and drew
(474) The elemental nutriment and
heat
(475) From nature, as earth feels the
sun at nights,
(476) Or as a babe sucks surely in the
dark.
(477) I kept the life thrust on me, on
the outside
(478) Of the inner life with all its
ample room
(479) For heart and lungs, for will and
intellect,
(480) Inviolable by conventions.
God,
(148) thank thee for that grace of
thine!
(148) At
first
(482) I felt no life which was not
patience,—did
(483) The thing she bade me, without
heed to a thing
(484) Beyond it, sate in just the chair
she placed,
(485) With back against the window, to
exclude
(486) The sight of the great lime-tree
on the lawn,
(487) Which seemed to have come on
purpose from the woods
(488) To bring the house a message,—ay,
and walked
(489) Demurely in her carpeted low
rooms,
(490) As if I should not, harkening my
own steps,
(491) Misdoubt I was alive. I read her
books,
(492) Was civil to her cousin, Romney
Leigh,
(493) Gave ear to her vicar, tea to her
visitors,
(494) And heard them whisper, when I
changed a cup,
(495) (I blushed for joy at that)—“The
Italian child,
(496) For all her blue eyes and her
quiet ways,
(497) Thrives ill in England: she is
paler yet
(498) Than when we came the last time;
she will die.”
(499) “Will die.” My cousin, Romney
Leigh, blushed too,
(500) With sudden anger, and
approaching me
(501) Said low between his teeth,
“You’re wicked now?
(502) You wish to die and leave the
world a-dusk
(503) For others, with your naughty
light blown out?”
(504) I looked into his face
defyingly;
(505) He might have known that, being
what I was,
(506) ’Twas natural to like to get
away
(507) As far as dead folk can: and then
indeed
(508) Some people make no trouble when
they die.
(509) He turned and went abruptly,
slammed the door
(510) And shut his dog in.
(510) Romney, Romney
Leigh.
(511) I have not named my cousin
hitherto,
(512) And yet I used him as a sort of
friend;
(513) My elder by few years, but cold
and shy
(514) And absent . . tender, when he
thought of it,
(515) Which scarcely was imperative,
grave betimes,
(516) As well as early master of Leigh
Hall,
(517) Whereof the nightmare sate upon
his youth
(518) Repressing all its seasonable
delights
(519) And agonising with a ghastly
sense
(520) Of universal hideous want and
wrong
(521) To incriminate possession. When
he came
(522) From college to the country, very
oft
(523) He crossed the hill on visits to
my aunt,
(524) With gifts of blue grapes from
the hothouses,
(525) A book in one hand,—mere
statistics, (if
(526) I chanced to lift the cover,)
count of all
(527) The goats whose beards grow
sprouting down toward hell
(528) Against God’s separative
judgment-hour.
55
(529) And she, she almost loved
him,—even allowed
(530) That sometimes he should seem to
sigh my way;
(531) It made him easier to be
pitiful,
(532) And sighing was his gift. So,
undisturbed
(533) At whiles she let him shut my
music up
(534) And push my needles down, and
lead me out
(535) To see in that south angle of the
house
(536) The figs grow black as if by a
Tuscan rock,
(537) Or some light pretext. She would
turn her head
(538) At other moments, go to fetch a
thing,
(539) And leave me breath enough to
speak with him,
(540) For his sake; it was
simple.
(540)
Sometimes too
(541) He would have saved me utterly,
it seemed,
(542) He stood and looked so.
(542) Once, he stood so
near
(543) He dropped a sudden hand upon my
head
(544) Bent down on woman’s work, as
soft as rain—
(545) But then I rose and shook it off
as fire,
(546) The stranger’s touch that took my
father’s place
(547) Yet dared seem soft.
(547) I used him for a
friend
(548) Before I ever knew him for a
friend.
(549) ’Twas better, ’twas worse also,
afterward:
(550) We came so close, we saw our
differences
(551) Too intimately. Always Romney
Leigh
(552) Was looking for the worms, I for
the gods.
(553) A godlike nature his; the gods
look down,
(554) Incurious of themselves; and
certainly
(555) ’Tis well I should remember, how,
those days,
(556) I was a worm too, and he looked
on me.
(557) A little by his act perhaps, yet
more
(558) By something in me, surely not my
will,
(559) I did not die. But slowly, as one
in swoon,
(560) To whom life creeps back in the
form of death,
(561) With a sense of separation, a
blind pain
(562) Of blank obstruction, and a roar
i’ the ears
(563) Of visionary chariots which
retreat
(564) As earth grows clearer . .
slowly, by degrees,
(565) I woke, rose up . . where was I?
in the world;
(566) For uses therefore I must count
worth while.
(567) I had a little chamber in the
house,
(568) As green as any privet-hedge a
bird
(569) Might choose to build in, though
the nest itself
(570) Could show but dead-brown sticks
and straws; the walls
(571) Were green, the carpet was pure
green, the straight
(572) Small bed was curtained greenly,
and the folds
(573) Hung green about the window which
let in
(574) The out-door world with all its
greenery.
56
(575) You could not push your head out
and escape
(576) A dash of dawn-dew from the
honeysuckle,
(577) But so you were baptized into the
grace
(578) And privilege of seeing. .
.
(578) First, the
lime,
(579) (I had enough there, of the lime,
be sure,—
(580) My morning-dream was often
hummed away
(581) By the bees in it;) past the
lime, the lawn
(582) Which, after sweeping broadly
round the house,
(583) Went trickling through the
shrubberies in a stream
(584) Of tender turf, and wore and lost
itself
(585) Among the acacias, over which you
saw
(586) The irregular line of elms by the
deep lane
(587) Which stopped the grounds and
dammed the overflow
(588) Of arbutus and laurel. Out of
sight
(589) The lane was; sunk so deep, no
foreign tramp
(590) Nor drover of wild ponies out of
Wales
(591) Could guess if lady’s hall or
tenant’s lodge
(592) Dispensed such odours,—though his
stick well-crooked
(593) Might reach the lowest trail of
blossoming briar
(594) Which dipped upon the wall.
Behind the elms,
(595) And through their tops, you saw
the folded hills
(596) Striped up and down with hedges,
(burly oaks
(597) Projecting from the line to show
themselves)
(598) Through which my cousin Romney’s
chimneys smoked
(599) As still as when a silent mouth
in frost
(600) Breathes, showing where the
woodlands hid Leigh Hall;
(601) While, far above, a jut of
table-land,
(602) A promontory without water,
stretched,
(603) You could not catch it if the
days were thick,
(604) Or took it for a cloud; but,
otherwise,
(605) The vigorous sun would catch it
up at eve
(606) And use it for an anvil till he
had filled
(607) The shelves of heaven with
burning thunderbolts,
(608) Protesting against night and
darkness:—then,
(609) When all his setting trouble was
resolved
(610) To a trance of passive glory, you
might see
(611) In apparition on the golden
sky
(612) (Alas, my Giotto’s
57 background!) the sheep
run
(613) Along the fine clear outline,
small as mice
(614) That run along a witch’s scarlet
thread.
58
(615) Not a grand nature. Not my
chesnut-woods
(616) Of Vallombrosa,
59 cleaving by the spurs
(617) To the precipices. Not my
headlong leaps
(618) In leaping through the
palpitating pines,
(620) Like a white soul tossed out to
eternity
(621) With thrills of time upon it. Not
indeed
(622) My multitudinous mountains,
sitting in
(623) The magic circle, with the mutual
touch
(624) Electric, panting from their full
deep hearts
(625) Beneath the influent
60 heavens, and waiting
for
(626) Communion and commission.
Italy
(627) Is one thing, England
one.
(627) On English
ground
(628) You understand the letter,—ere
the fall
(629) How Adam lived
61 in a garden. All the
fields
(630) Are tied up fast with hedges,
nosegay-like;
(631) The hills are crumpled plains,
the plains parterres,
(632) The trees, round, woolly, ready
to be clipped,
(633) And if you seek for any
wilderness
(634) You find, at best, a park. A
nature tamed
(635) And grown domestic like a
barn-door fowl,
(636) Which does not awe you with its
claws and beak
(637) Nor tempt you to an eyrie too
high up,
(638) But which, in cackling, sets you
thinking of
(639) Your eggs to-morrow at breakfast,
in the pause
(640) Of finer meditation.
(640) Rather say,
(641) A sweet familiar nature, stealing
in
(642) As a dog might, or child, to
touch your hand
(643) Or pluck your gown, and humbly
mind you so
(644) Of presence and affection,
excellent
(645) For inner uses, from the things
without.
(646) I could not be unthankful, I who
was
(647) Entreated thus and holpen.
62 In the room
(648) I speak of, ere the house was
well awake,
(649) And also after it was well
asleep,
(650) I sate alone, and drew the
blessing in
(651) Of all that nature. With a
gradual step,
(652) A stir among the leaves, a
breath, a ray,
(653) It came in softly, while the
angels made
(654) A place for it beside me. The
moon came,
(655) And swept my chamber clean of
foolish thoughts.
(656) The sun came, saying, “Shall I
lift this light
(657) Against the lime-tree, and you
will not look?
(658) I make the birds sing—listen!
but, for you,
(659) God never hears your voice,
excepting when
(660) You lie upon the bed at nights
and weep.”
(661) Then, something moved me. Then, I
wakened up
(662) More slowly than I verily write
now,
(663) But wholly, at last, I wakened,
opened wide
(664) The window and my soul, and let
the airs
(665) And out-door sights sweep gradual
gospels in,
(666) Regenerating what I was. O
Life,
(667) How oft we throw it off and
think,—“Enough,
(668) Enough of life in so much!—here’s
a cause
(669) For rupture;—herein we must break
with Life,
(670) Or be ourselves unworthy; here we
are wronged
(671) Maimed, spoiled for aspiration:
farewell, Life!”
(672) And so, as froward
63 babes, we hide our
eyes
(673) And think all ended.—Then, Life
calls to us
(674) In some transformed, apocalyptic
64 voice,
(675) Above us, or below us, or
around:
(676) Perhaps we name it Nature’s
voice, or Love’s,
(677) Tricking ourselves, because we
are more ashamed
(678) To own our compensations than our
griefs:
(679) Still, Life’s voice!—still, we
make our peace with Life.
(680) And I, so young then, was not
sullen. Soon
(681) I used to get up early, just to
sit
(682) And watch the morning quicken in
the gray,
(683) And hear the silence open like a
flower
(684) Leaf after leaf,—and stroke with
listless hand
(685) The woodbine through the window,
till at last
(686) I came to do it with a sort of
love,
(687) At foolish unaware: whereat I
smiled,—
(688) A melancholy smile, to catch
myself
(689) Smiling for joy.
(689) Capacity for joy
(690) Admits temptation. It seemed,
next, worth while
(691) To dodge the sharp sword set
against my life;
(692) To slip down stairs through all
the sleepy house,
(693) As mute as any dream there, and
escape
(694) As a soul from the body, out of
doors,
(695) Glide through the shrubberies,
drop into the lane,
(696) And wander on the hills an hour
or two,
(697) Then back again before the house
should stir.
(698) Or else I sate on in my chamber
green,
(699) And lived my life, and thought my
thoughts, and prayed
(700) My prayers without the vicar;
read my books,
(701) Without considering whether they
were fit
(702) To do me good. Mark, there. We
get no good
(703) By being ungenerous, even to a
book,
(704) And calculating profits,—so much
help
(705) By so much reading. It is rather
when
(706) We gloriously forget ourselves
and plunge
(707) Soul-forward, headlong, into a
book’s profound,
(708) Impassioned for its beauty and
salt of truth—
(709) ’Tis then we get the right good
from a book.
(710) I read much. What my father
taught before
(711) From many a volume, Love
re-emphasised
(712) Upon the self-same pages:
Theophrast
65
(713) Grew tender with the memory of
his eyes,
(714) And Ælian
66 made mine wet. The trick of
Greek and
(715) And Latin,
67 he had taught me, as he
would
(716) Have taught me wrestling or the
game of fives
68
(717) If such he had known,—most like a
shipwrecked man
(718) Who heaps his single platter with
goats’ cheese
(719) And scarlet berries; or like any
man
(720) Who loves but one, and so gives
all at once,
(721) Because he has it rather than
because
(722) He counts it worthy. Thus, my
father gave;
(723) And thus, as did the women
formerly
(724) By young Achilles, when they
pinned a veil
(725) Across the boy’s audacious
front,
69 and swept
(726) With tuneful laughs the
silver-fretted rocks,
(727) He wrapt his little daughter in
his large
(728) Man’s doublet, careless did it
fit or no.
(729) But, after I had read for
memory,
(730) I read for hope. The path my
father’s foot
(731) Had trod me out, (which suddenly
broke off
(732) What time he dropped the wallet
of the flesh
(733) And passed) alone I carried on,
and set
(734) My child-heart ’gainst the thorny
underwood,
(735) To reach the grassy shelter of
the trees.
(736) Ah babe i’ the wood, without a
brother-babe!
(737) My own self-pity, like the
red-breast bird,
(738) Flies back to cover all that past
with leaves.
70
(739) Sublimest danger, over which none
weeps
(740) When any young wayfaring soul
goes forth
(741) Alone, unconscious of the
perilous road,
(742) The day-sun dazzling in his
limpid eyes,
(743) To thrust his own way, he an
alien, through
(744) The world of books! Ah, you!—you
think it fine,
(745) You clap hands—“A fair day!”—you
cheer him on,
(746) As if the worst, could happen,
were to rest
(747) Too long beside a fountain. Yet,
behold,
(748) Behold!—the world of books is
still the world,
(749) And worldlings in it are less
merciful
(750) And more puissant.
71 For the wicked there
(751) Are winged like angels; every
knife that strikes
(752) Is edged from elemental fire to
assail
(753) A spiritual life; the beautiful
seems right
(754) By force of beauty, and the
feeble wrong
(755) Because of weakness; power is
justified
(756) Though armed against Saint
Michael;
72 many a crown
(757) Covers bald foreheads.
73 In the book-world,
true,
(758) There’s no lack, neither, of
God’s saints and kings,
(759) That shake the ashes of the grave
aside
(760) From their calm locks and
undiscomfited
(761) Look stedfast truths against
Time’s changing mask.
(762) True, many a prophet teaches in
the roads;
(763) True, many a seer pulls down the
flaming heavens
(764) Upon his own head in strong
martyrdom
(765) In order to light men a moment’s
space.
(766) But stay!—who judges?—who
distinguishes
(767) ’Twixt Saul and Nahash
74 justly, at first
sight,
(768) And leaves king Saul precisely at
the sin,
(769) To serve king David? who discerns
at once
(770) The sound of the trumpets, when
the trumpets blow
(771) For Alaric as well as
Charlemagne?
75
(772) Who judges wizards, and can tell
true seers
(773) From conjurors? the child, there?
Would you leave
(774) That child to wander in a
battle-field
(775) And push his innocent smile
against the guns;
(776) Or even in the catacombs,—his
torch
(777) Grown ragged in the fluttering
air, and all
(778) The dark a-mutter round him? not
a child.
(779) I read books bad and good—some
bad and good
(780) At once; (good aims not always
make good books:
(781) Well-tempered spades turn up
ill-smelling soils
(782) In digging vineyards even) books
that prove
(783) God’s being so definitely, that
man’s doubt
(784) Grows self-defined the other side
the line,
(785) Made atheist by suggestion; moral
books,
(786) Exasperating to license; genial
books,
(787) Discounting from the human
dignity;
(788) And merry books, which set you
weeping when
(789) The sun shines,—ay, and
melancholy books,
(790) Which make you laugh that any one
should weep
(791) In this disjointed life for one
wrong more.
(792) The world of books is still the
world, I write,
(793) And both worlds have God’s
providence, thank God,
(794) To keep and hearten: with some
struggle, indeed,
(795) Among the breakers, some hard
swimming through
(796) The deeps—I lost breath in my
soul sometimes
(797) And cried, “God save me if
there’s any God,”
76
(798) But, even so, God saved me; and,
being dashed
(799) From error on to error, every
turn
(800) Still brought me nearer to the
central truth.
77
(801) I thought so. All this anguish in
the thick
(802) Of men’s opinions . . press and
counterpress,
(803) Now up, now down, now underfoot,
and now
(804) Emergent . . all the best of it,
perhaps,
(805) But throws you back upon a noble
trust
(806) And use of your own
instinct,—merely proves
(807) Pure reason stronger than bare
inference
(808) At strongest. Try it,—fix against
heaven’s wall
(809) The scaling-ladders of school
logic—mount
(810) Step by step!—sight goes faster;
that still ray
(811) Which strikes out from you, how,
you cannot tell,
(812) And why, you know not, (did you
eliminate,
(813) That such as you indeed should
analyse?)
(814) Goes straight and fast as light,
and high as God.
(815) The cygnet finds the water, but
the man
(816) Is born in ignorance of his
element
(817) And feels out blind at first,
disorganised
(818) By sin i’ the blood,
78 —his spirit-insight
dulled
(819) And crossed by his sensations.
Presently
(820) He feels it quicken in the dark
sometimes,
(821) When, mark, be reverent, be
obedient,
(822) For such dumb motions of
imperfect life
(823) Are oracles of vital Deity
(824) Attesting the Hereafter. Let who
says
(825) “The soul’s a clean white paper,”
rather say,
(826) A palimpsest,
79 a prophet’s holograph
(827) Defiled, erased and covered by a
monk’s,—
(828) The apocalypse, by a Longus!
80 poring on
(829) Which obscene text, we may
discern perhaps
(830) Some fair, fine trace of what was
written once,
(831) Some upstroke of an alpha and
omega
81
(832) Expressing the old
scripture.
(832)
Books, books, books!
(833) I had found the secret of a
garret-room
(834) Piled high with cases in my
father’s name,
82
(835) Piled high, packed large,—where,
creeping in and out
(836) Among the giant fossils of my
past,
(837) Like some small nimble mouse
between the ribs
(838) Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and
there
(839) At this or that box, pulling
through the gap,
(840) In heats of terror, haste,
victorious joy,
(841) The first book first. And how I
felt it beat
(842) Under my pillow, in the morning’s
dark,
(843) An hour before the sun would let
me read!
(844) My books! At last because the
time was ripe,
(845) I chanced upon the
poets.
(845) As the
earth
(846) Plunges in fury, when the
internal fires
(847) Have reached and pricked her
heart, and, throwing flat
(848) The marts and temples, the
triumphal gates
(849) And towers of observation, clears
herself
(850) To elemental freedom—thus, my
soul,
(851) At poetry’s divine first
finger-touch,
(852) Let go conventions and sprang up
surprised,
(853) Convicted of the great
eternities
(854) Before two worlds.
(854) What’s this, Aurora
Leigh,
(855) You write so of the poets, and
not laugh?
(856) Those virtuous liars, dreamers
after dark,
(857) Exaggerators of the sun and
moon,
(858) And soothsayers in a
tea-cup?
(858) I
write so
(859) Of the only truth-tellers now
left to God,
(860) The only speakers of essential
truth,
(861) Opposed to relative,
comparative,
(862) And temporal truths; the only
holders by
(863) His sun-skirts, through
conventional gray glooms;
(864) The only teachers who instruct
mankind
(865) From just a shadow on a
charnel-wall
(866) To find man’s veritable stature
out
(867) Erect, sublime,—the measure of a
man,
(868) And that’s the measure of an
angel, says
(869) The apostle.
83 Ay, and while your common
men
(870) Lay telegraphs,
84 gauge railroads, reign,
reap, dine,
(871) And dust the flaunty carpets of
the world
(872) For kings to walk on or our
president,
(873) The poet suddenly will catch them
up
(874) With his voice like a
thunder,
85 —“This is soul,
(875) This is life, this word is being
said in heaven,
(876) Here’s God down on us! what are
you about?”
(877) How all those workers start amid
their work,
(878) Look round, look up, and feel, a
moment’s space,
(879) That carpet-dusting, though a
pretty trade,
(880) Is not the imperative labour
after all.
(881) My own best poets, am I one with
you,
(882) That thus I love you,—or but one
through love?
(883) Does all this smell of thyme
about my feet
(884) Conclude my visit to your holy
hill
86
(885) In personal presence, or but
testify
(886) The rustling of your vesture
through my dreams
(887) With influent odours? When my joy
and pain,
(888) My thought and aspiration, like
the stops
(889) Of pipe or flute, are absolutely
dumb
(890) Unless melodious, do you play on
me
(881) My pipers,—and if, sooth, you did
not blow,
(892) Would no sound come? or is the
music mine,
(893) As a man’s voice or breath is
called his own,
(894) Inbreathed by the Life-breather?
There’s a doubt
(895) For cloudy seasons!
(895) But the sun was
high
(896) When first I felt my pulses set
themselves
(897) For concord; when the rhythmic
turbulence
(898) Of blood and brain swept outward
upon words,
(899) As wind upon the alders,
blanching them
(900) By turning up their under-natures
till
(901) They trembled in dilation. O
delight
(902) And triumph of the poet, who
would say
(903) A man’s mere “yes,” a woman’s
common “no,”
(904) A little human hope of that or
this,
(905) And says the word so that it
burns you through
(906) With a special revelation, shakes
the heart
(907) Of all the men and women in the
world,
(908) As if one came back from the dead
and spoke,
(909) With eyes too happy, a familiar
thing
(910) Become divine i’ the utterance!
while for him
(911) The poet, speaker, he expands
with joy;
(912) The palpitating angel in his
flesh
(913) Thrills inly with consenting
fellowship
(914) To those innumerous spirits who
sun themselves
(915) Outside of time.
(915) O life, O poetry,
(916) —Which means life in life!
cognisant of life
(917) Beyond this blood-beat,
passionate for truth
(918) Beyond these senses!—poetry, my
life,
(919) My eagle, with both grappling
feet still hot
(920) From Zeus’s thunder, who hast
ravished me
(921) Away from all the shepherds,
sheep, and dogs,
(922) And set me in the Olympian roar
and round
(923) Of luminous faces for a
cup-bearer,
87
(924) To keep the mouths of all the
godheads moist
(925) For everlasting laughters,
88 —I myself
(926) Half drunk across the beaker with
their eyes!
(927) How those gods look! ,
(927) Enough so,
Ganymede,
(928) We shall not bear above a round
or two.
(929) We drop the golden cup at
Heré’s
89 foot
(930) And swoon back to the earth,—and
find ourselves
(931) Face-down among the pine-cones,
cold with dew,
(932) While the dogs bark, and many a
shepherd scoffs,
(933) “What’s come now to the youth?”
Such ups and downs
(934) Have poets.
(934) Am I such indeed? The
name
(935) Is royal, and to sign it like a
queen,
(936) Is what I dare not,—though some
royal blood
(937) Would seem to tingle in me now
and then,
(938) With sense of power and
ache,—with imposthumes
90
(939) And manias usual to the race.
Howbeit
(940) I dare not: ’tis too easy to go
mad
(941) And ape a Bourbon in a crown of
straws;
91
(942) The thing’s too common.
(942) Many fervent souls
(943) Strike rhyme on rhyme, who would
strike steel on steel
(944) If steel had offered, in a
restless heat
(945) Of doing something. Many tender
souls
(946) Have strung their losses on a
rhyming thread,
(947) As children, cowslips:—the more
pains they take,
(948) The work more withers. Young men,
ay, and maids,
(949) Too often sow their wild oats in
tame verse,
(950) Before they sit down under their
own vine
92
(951) And live for use. Alas, near all
the birds
(952) Will sing at dawn,—and yet we do
not take
(953) The chaffering swallow for the
holy lark.
(954) In those days, though, I never
analysed,
(955) Not even myself. Analysis comes
late.
(956) You catch a sight of Nature,
earliest,
(957) In full front sun-face, and your
eyelids wink
(958) And drop before the wonder of’t;
you miss
(959) The form, through seeing the
light. I lived, those days,
(960) And wrote because I
lived—unlicensed else;
(961) My heart beat in my brain. Life’s
violent flood
(962) Abolished bounds,—and, which my
neighbour’s field,
(963) Which mine, what mattered? it is
thus in youth!
(964) We play at leap-frog over the god
Term;
93
(965) The love within us and the love
without
(966) Are mixed, confounded; if we are
loved or love,
(967) We scarce distinguish: thus, with
other power;
(968) Being acted on and acting seem
the same:
(969) In that first onrush of life’s
chariot-wheels,
(970) We know not if the forests move
or we.
(971) And so, like most young poets, in
a flush
(972) Of individual life I poured
myself
(973) Along the veins of others, and
achieved
(974) Mere lifeless imitations of live
verse,
(975) And made the living answer for
the dead,
(976) Profaning nature. “Touch not, do
not taste,
(977) Nor handle,”
94 —we’re too legal, who write
young:
(978) We beat the phorminx
95 till we hurt our
thumbs,
(979) As if still ignorant of
counterpoint;
(980) We call the Muse,—“O Muse,
benignant Muse,”—
(981) As if we had seen her
purple-braided head,
96
(982) With the eyes in it, start
between the boughs
(983) As often as a stag’s. What
make-believe,
(984) With so much earnest! what effete
results
(985) From virile efforts! what cold
wire-drawn
97 odes,
(986) From such white
heats!—bucolics,
98 where the cows
(987) Would scare the writer if they
splashed the mud
(988) In lashing off the
flies,—didactics, driven
(989) Against the heels of what the
master said;
(990) And counterfeiting epics, shrill
with trumps
(991) A babe might blow between two
straining cheeks
(992) Of bubbled rose, to make his
mother laugh;
(993) And elegiac griefs, and songs of
love,
(994) Like cast-off nosegays picked up
on the road,
(995) The worse for being warm: all
these things, writ
(996) On happy mornings, with a morning
heart,
(997) That leaps for love, is active
for resolve,
(998) Weak for art only. Oft, the
ancient forms
(999) Will thrill, indeed, in carrying
the young blood.
(1000) The wine-skins, now and then, a
little warped,
(1001) Will crack even, as the new wine
gurgles in.
(1002) Spare the old bottles!—spill not
the new wine.
99
(1003) By Keats’s soul, the man who
never stepped
(1004) In gradual progress like another
man,
(1005) But, turning grandly on his
central self,
(1006) Ensphered himself in twenty
perfect years
100
(1007) And died, not young, (the life
of a long life
(1008) Distilled to a mere drop,
falling like a tear
(1009) Upon the world’s cold cheek to
make it burn
(1010) For ever;) by that strong
excepted soul,
(1011) I count it strange and hard to
understand
(1012) That nearly all young poets
should write old,
(1013) That Pope was sexagenary at
sixteen,
101
(1014) And beardless Byron
academical,
102
(1015) And so with others. It may be
perhaps
(1016) Such have not settled long and
deep enough
(1017) In trance, to attain to
clairvoyance,—and still
(1018) The memory mixes with the
vision, spoils,
(1019) And works it turbid.
(1019) Or perhaps, again,
(1020) In order to discover the
Muse-Sphinx,
(1021) The melancholy desert must sweep
round,
(1022) Behind you as
before.—
(1022) For
me, I wrote
(1023) False poems, like the rest,
103 and thought them
true
(1024) Because myself was true in
writing them.
(1025) I peradventure have writ true
ones since
(1026) With less complacence.
(1026) But I could not
hide
(1027) My quickening inner life from
those at watch.
(1028) They saw a light at a window now
and then,
(1029) They had not set there: who had
set it there?
(1030) My father’s sister started when
she caught
(1031) My soul agaze in my eyes. She
could not say
(1032) I had no business with a sort of
soul,
(1033) But plainly she objected,—and
demurred
(1034) That souls were dangerous things
to carry straight
(1035) Through all the spilt saltpetre
of the world.
(1036) She said sometimes, “Aurora,
have you done
(1037) Your task this morning? have
you read that book?
(1038) And are you ready for the
crochet here?”—
(1039) As if she said, “I know there’s
something wrong;
(1040) I know I have not ground you
down enough
(1041) To flatten and bake you to a
wholesome crust
(1042) For household uses and
proprieties,
(0143) Before the rain has got into my
barn
(1044) And set the grains a-sprouting.
What, you’re green
(1045) With out-door impudence? you
almost grow?”
(1046) To which I answered, “Would she
hear my task,
(1047) And verify my abstract of the
book?
(1048) Or should I sit down to the
crochet work?
(1049) Was such her pleasure?” Then I
sate and teased
(1050) The patient needle till it spilt
the thread,
(1051) Which oozed off from it in
meandering lace
(1052) From hour to hour. I was not,
therefore, sad;
(1053) My soul was singing at a work
apart
(1054) Behind the wall of sense, as
safe from harm
(1055) As sings the lark when sucked up
out of sight
(1056) In vortices of glory and blue
air.
104
(1057) And so, through forced work and
spontaneous work,
(1058) The inner life informed the
outer life,
105
(1059) Reduced the irregular blood to a
settled rhythm,
(1060) Made cool the forehead with
fresh-sprinkling dreams,
(1061) And, rounding to the spheric
soul the thin,
(1062) Pined body, struck a colour up
the cheeks
(1063) Though somewhat faint. I
clenched my brows across
(1064) My blue eyes greatening in the
looking-glass,
(1065) And said, “We’ll live, Aurora!
we’ll be strong.
(1066) The dogs are on us—but we will
not die.”
(1067) Whoever lives true life, will
love true love.
(1068) I learnt to love that England.
Very oft,
(1069) Before the day was born, or
otherwise
(1070) Through secret windings of the
afternoons,
(1071) I threw my hunters off and
plunged myself
(1072) Among the deep hills, as a
hunted stag
106
(1073) Will take the waters, shivering
with the fear
(1074) And passion of the course. And
when at last
(1075) Escaped, so many a green slope
built on slope
(1076) Betwixt me and the enemy’s house
behind,
(1077) I dared to rest, or wander, in a
rest
(1078) Made sweeter for the step upon
the grass,
(1079) And view the ground’s most
gentle dimplement,
107
(1080) (As if God’s finger touched but
did not press
(1081) In making England) such an up
and down
(1082) Of verdure,—nothing too much up
or down,
(1083) A ripple of land; such little
hills, the sky
(1084) Can stoop to tenderly and the
wheatfields climb;
(1085) Such nooks of valleys lined with
orchises,
108
(1086) Fed full of noises by invisible
streams;
(1087) And open pastures where you
scarcely tell
(1088) White daisies from white dew,—at
intervals
(1089) The mythic oaks and elm-trees
standing out
(1090) Self-poised upon their prodigy
of shade,—
(1091) I thought my father’s land was
worthy too
(1092) Of being my
Shakespeare’s.
(1092)
Very oft alone,
(1093) Unlicensed; not unfrequently
with leave
(1094) To walk the third with Romney
and his friend
(1095) The rising painter, Vincent
Carrington,
(1096) Whom men judge hardly as
bee-bonnetted,
(1097) Because he holds that, paint a
body well,
(1098) You paint a soul by
implication,
109like
(1099) The grand first Master.
110 Pleasant walks! for
if
(1100) He said, “When I was last in
Italy,”
(1101) It sounded as an instrument
that’s played
(1102) Too far off for the tune—and yet
it’s fine
(1103) To listen.
(1103) Ofter we walked only
two
(1104) If cousin Romney pleased to walk
with me.
(1105) We read, or talked, or
quarrelled, as it chanced.
(1106) We were not lovers, nor even
friends well-matched:
(1107) Say rather, scholars upon
different tracks,
(1108) And thinkers disagreed, he,
overfull
(1109) Of what is, and I, haply,
overbold
(1110) For what might be.
(1110) But then the thrushes
sang,
(1111) And shook my pulses and the
elms’ new leaves;
(1112) At which I turned, and held my
finger up,
(1113) And bade him mark that,
howsoe’er the world
(1114) Went ill, as he related,
certainly
(1115) The thrushes still sang in it.
At the word
(1116) His brow would soften,—and he
bore with me
(1117) In melancholy patience, not
unkind,
(1118) While breaking into voluble
ecstasy
(1119) I flattered all the beauteous
country round,
(1120) As poets use . . the skies, the
clouds, the fields,
(1121) The happy violets hiding from
the roads
(1122) The primroses run down to,
carrying gold;
(1123) The tangled hedgerows, where the
cows push out
(1124) Impatient horns and tolerant
churning mouths
(1125) ’Twixt dripping
ash-boughs,—hedgerows all alive
(1126) With birds and gnats and large
white butterflies
(1127) Which look as if the May-flower
had caught life
(1128) And palpitated forth upon the
wind;
(1129) Hills, vales, woods, netted in a
silver mist,
(1130) Farms, granges, doubled up among
the hills;
(1131) And cattle grazing in the
watered vales,
(1132) And cottage-chimneys smoking
from the woods,
(1133) And cottage-gardens smelling
everywhere,
(1134) Confused with smell of orchards.
“See,” I said,
(1135) “And see! is God not with us on
the earth?
(1136) And shall we put Him down by
aught we do?
(1137) Who says there’s nothing for the
poor and vile
(1138) Save poverty and wickedness?
behold!”
(1139) And ankle-deep in English grass
I leaped
(1140) And clapped my hands, and called
all very fair.
(1141) In the beginning when God called
all good,
111
(1142) Even then was evil near us, it
is writ;
(1143) But we indeed who call things
good and fair,
(1144) The evil is upon us while we
speak;
(1145) Deliver us from evil,
112 let us pray.