Aurora Leigh: Book 2

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

    Times followed one another. Came a morn
    I stood upon the brink of twenty years,
    And looked before and after, as I stood
    Woman and artist, either incomplete,
    Both credulous of completion. There I held
    The whole creation in my little cup,
    And smiled with thirsty lips before I drank
    "Good health to you and me, sweet neighbour mine,
    And all these peoples."


    I was glad, that day;
    The June was in me, with its multitudes
    Of nightingales all singing in the dark,
    And rosebuds reddening where the calyx split.
    I felt so young, so strong, so sure of God!
    So glad, I could not choose be very wise!
    And, old at twenty, was inclined to pull
    My childhood backward in a childish jest
    To see the face of 't once more, and farewell!
    In which fantastic mood I bounded forth
    At early morning, would not wait so long
    As even to snatch my bonnet by the strings,
    But, brushing a green trail across the lawn
    With my gown in the dew, took will and way
    Among the acacias of the shrubberies,
    To fly my fancies in the open air
    And keep my birthday, till my aunt awoke
    To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I murmured on
    As honeyed bees keep humming to themselves,
    "The worthiest poets have remained uncrowned
    Till death has bleached their foreheads to the bone;
    And so with me it must be unless I prove
    Unworthy of the grand adversity,
    And certainly I would not fail so much.
    What, therefore, if I crown myself to-day
    In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of it,
    Before my brows be numbed as Dante's own
    To all the tender pricking of such leaves?
    Such leaves! what leaves?"


    I pulled the branches down
    To choose from.


    "Not the bay! I choose no bay
    (The fates deny us if we are overbold),
    Nor myrtle which means chiefly love; and love
    Is something awful which one dares not touch
    So early o' mornings. This verbena strains
    The point of passionate fragrance; and hard by,
    This guelder-rose, at far too slight a beck
    Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples.
    Ah there's my choice, that ivy on the wall,
    That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow
    But thinking of a wreath. Large leaves, smooth leaves,
    Serrated like my vines, and half as green.
    I like such ivy, bold to leap a height
    'Twas strong to climb; as good to grow on graves
    As twist about a thyrsus; pretty too
    (And that's not ill) when twisted round a comb."
    Thus speaking to myself, half singing it,
    Because some thoughts are fashioned like a bell
    To ring with once being touched, I drew a wreath
    Drenched, blinding me with dew, across my brow,
    And fastening it behind so, turning faced
    . . . My public! cousin Romney with a mouth
    Twice graver than his eyes.


    I stood there fixed,
    My arms up, like the caryatid, sole
    Of some abolished temple, helplessly
    Persistent in a gesture which derides
    A former purpose. Yet my blush was flame,
    As if from flax, not stone.


    "Aurora Leigh,
    The earliest of Auroras!"


    Hand stretched out
    I clasped, as shipwrecked men will clasp a hand,
    Indifferent to the sort of palm. The tide
    Had caught me at my pastime, writing down
    My foolish name too near upon the sea
    Which drowned me with a blush as foolish. "You,
    My cousin!"


    The smile died out in his eyes
    And dropped upon his lips, a cold dead weight,
    For just a moment, "Here's a book I found!
    No name writ on it poems, by the form;
    Some Greek upon the margin, lady's Greek
    Without the accents. Read it? Not a word.
    I saw at once the thing had witchcraft in't,
    Whereof the reading calls up dangerous spirits:
    I rather bring it to the witch."


    "My book.
    You found it" . . .


    "In the hollow by the stream
    That beech leans down into of which you said
    The Oread in it has a Naiad's heart
    And pines for waters."


    "Thank you."


    "Thanks to you
    My cousin! that I have seen you not too much
    Witch, scholar, poet, dreamer, and the rest,
    To be a woman also."


    With a glance
    The smile rose in his eyes again and touched
    The ivy on my forehead, light as air.
    I answered gravely "Poets needs must be
    Or men or women more's the pity."


    "Ah,
    But men, and still less women, happily,
    Scarce need be poets. Keep to the green wreath,
    Since even dreaming of the stone and bronze
    Brings headaches, pretty cousin, and defiles
    The clean white morning dresses."


    "So you judge!
    Because I love the beautiful I must
    Love pleasure chiefly, and be overcharged
    For ease and whiteness! well, you know the world,
    And only miss your cousin, 'tis not much.
    But learn this; I would rather take my part
    With God's Dead, who afford to walk in white
    Yet spread His glory, than keep quiet here
    And gather up my feet from even a step
    For fear to soil my gown in so much dust.
    I choose to walk at all risks. Here, if heads
    That hold a rhythmic thought, much ache perforce,
    For my part I choose headaches, and today's
    My birthday."


    "Dear Aurora, choose instead
    To cure them. You have balsams."


    "I perceive.
    The headache is too noble for my sex.
    You think the heartache would sound decenter,
    Since that's the woman's special, proper ache,
    And altogether tolerable, except
    To a woman."


    Saying which, I loosed my wreath,
    And swinging it beside me as I walked,
    Half-petulant, half-playful, as we walked,
    I sent a sidelong look to find his thought,
    As falcon set on falconer's finger may,
    With sidelong head, and startled, braving eye,
    Which means, "You'll see you'll see! I'll soon take flight,
    You shall not hinder." He, as shaking out
    His hand and answering "Fly then," did not speak,
    Except by such a gesture. Silently
    We paced, until, just coming into sight
    Of the house-windows, he abruptly caught
    At one end of the swinging wreath, and said
    "Aurora!" There I stopped short, breath and all.


    "Aurora, let's be serious, and throw by
    This game of head and heart. Life means, be sure,
    Both heart and head, both active, both complete,
    And both in earnest. Men and women make
    The world, as head and heart make human life.
    Work man, work woman, since there's work to do
    In this beleaguered earth, for head and heart,
    And thought can never do the work of love:
    But work for ends, I mean for uses, not
    For such sleek fringes (do you call them ends,
    Still less God's glory?) as we sew ourselves
    Upon the velvet of those baldaquins
    Held 'twixt us and the sun. That book of yours,
    I have not read a page of; but I toss
    A rose up it falls calyx down, you see!
    The chances are that, being a woman, young
    And pure, with such a pair of large, calm eyes,
    You write as well . . . and ill . . . upon the whole,
    As other women. If as well, what then?
    If even a little better, . . . still, what then?
    We want the Best in art now, or no art.
    The time is done for facile settings up
    Of minnow gods, nymphs here and tritons there;
    The polytheists have gone out in God,
    That unity of Bests. No best, no God!
    And so with art, we say. Give art's divine,
    Direct, indubitable, real as grief,
    Or leave us to the grief we grow ourselves
    Divine by overcoming with mere hope
    And most prosaic patience. You, you are young
    As Eve with nature's daybreak on her face,
    But this same world you are come to, dearest coz,
    Has done with keeping birthdays, saves her wreaths
    To hang upon her ruins, and forgets
    To rhyme the cry with which she still beats back
    Those savage, hungry dogs that hunt her down
    To the empty grave of Christ. The world's hard pressed:
    The sweat of labour in the early curse
    Has (turning acrid in six thousand years)
    Become the sweat of torture. Who has time,
    An hour's time . . . think! to sit upon a bank
    And hear the cymbal tinkle in white hands?
    When Egypt's slain, I say, let Miriam sing!
    Before where's Moses?"


    "Ah, exactly that.
    Where's Moses? is a Moses to be found?
    You'll seek him vainly in the bulrushes,
    While I in vain touch cymbals. Yet concede,
    Such sounding brass has done some actual good
    (The application in a woman's hand,
    If that were credible, being scarcely spoilt,)
    In colonising beehives."


    "There it is!
    You play beside a death-bed like a child,
    Yet measure to yourself a prophet's place
    To teach the living. None of all these things
    Can women understand. You generalise
    Oh, nothing, not even grief! Your quick-breathed hearts,
    So sympathetic to the personal pang,
    Close on each separate knife-stroke, yielding up
    A whole life at each wound, incapable
    Of deepening, widening a large lap of life
    To hold the world-full woe. The human race
    To you means, such a child, or such a man,
    You saw one morning waiting in the cold,
    Beside that gate, perhaps. You gather up
    A few such cases, and when strong sometimes
    Will write of factories and of slaves, as if
    Your father were a negro, and your son
    A spinner in the mills. All's yours and you,
    All, coloured with your blood, or otherwise
    Just nothing to you. Why, I call you hard
    To general suffering. Here's the world half-blind
    With intellectual light, half-brutalised
    With civilisation, having caught the plague
    In silks from Tarsus, shrieking east and west
    Along a thousand railroads, mad with pain
    And sin too! . . . does one woman of you all
    (You who weep easily) grow pale to see
    This tiger shake his cage? does one of you
    Stand still from dancing, stop from stringing pearls,
    And pine and die because of the great sum
    Of universal anguish? Show me a tear
    Wet as Cordelia's, in eyes bright as yours,
    Because the world is mad. You cannot count,
    That you should weep for this account, not you!
    You weep for what you know. A red-haired child
    Sick in a fever, if you touch him once,
    Though but so little as with a finger-tip,
    Will set you weeping; but a million sick . . .
    You could as soon weep for the rule of three
    Or compound fractions. Therefore, this same world,
    Uncomprehended by you, must remain
    Uninfluenced by you. Women as you are,
    Mere women, personal and passionate,
    You give us doating mothers, and perfect wives,
    Sublime Madonnas, and enduring saints!
    We get no Christ from you, and verily
    We shall not get a poet, in my mind."
    "With which conclusion you conclude" . . .


                     "But this,"
    That you, Aurora, with the large live brow
    And steady eyelids, cannot condescend
    To play at art, as children play at swords,
    To show a pretty spirit, chiefly admired
    Because true action is impossible.
    You never can be satisfied with praise
    Which men give women when they judge a book
    Not as mere work but as mere woman's work,
    Expressing the comparative respect
    Which means the absolute scorn. "Oh, excellent,
    "What grace, what facile turns, what fluent sweeps,
    "What delicate discernment . . . almost thought!
    "The book does honour to the sex, we hold.
    "Among our female authors we make room
    "For this fair writer, and congratulate
    "The country that produces in these times
    "Such women, competent to . . . spell."


                "Stop there,"
    I answered, burning through his thread of talk
    With a quick flame of emotion, "You have read
    My soul, if not my book, and argue well
    I would not condescend . . . we will not say
    To such a kind of praise (a worthless end
    Is praise of all kinds), but to such a use
    Of holy art and golden life. I am young,
    And peradventure weak you tell me so
    Through being a woman. And, for all the rest,
    Take thanks for justice. I would rather dance
    At fairs on tight-rope, till the babies dropped
    Their gingerbread for joy, than shift the types
    For tolerable verse, intolerable
    To men who act and suffer. Better far
    Pursue a frivolous trade by serious means,
    Than a sublime art frivolously."


    "You,
    Choose nobler work than either, O moist eyes
    And hurrying lips and heaving heart! We are young,
    Aurora, you and I. The world, look round,
    The world, we're come to late, is swollen hard
    With perished generations and their sins:
    The civiliser's spade grinds horribly
    On dead men's bones, and cannot turn up soil
    That's otherwise than fetid. All success
    Proves partial failure; all advance implies
    What's left behind; all triumph, something crushed
    At the chariot-wheels; all government, some wrong:
    And rich men make the poor, who curse the rich,
    Who agonise together, rich and poor,
    Under and over, in the social spasm
    And crisis of the ages. Here's an age
    That makes its own vocation! here we have stepped
    Across the bounds of time! here's nought to see,
    But just the rich man and just Lazarus,
    And both in torments, with a mediate gulf,
    Though not a hint of Abraham's bosom. Who
    Being man, Aurora, can stand calmly by
    And view these things, and never tease his soul
    For some great cure? No physic for this grief,
    In all the earth and heavens too?"


    "You believe
    In God, for your part? ay? that He who makes
    Can make good things from ill things, best from worst,
    As men plant tulips upon dunghills when
    They wish them finest?"


    "True. A death-heat is
    The same as life-heat, to be accurate,
    And in all nature is no death at all,
    As men account of death, so long as God
    Stands witnessing for life perpetually,
    By being just God. That's abstract truth, I know,
    Philosophy, or sympathy with God:
    But I, I sympathise with man, not God
    (I think I was a man for chiefly this),
    And when I stand beside a dying bed,
    'Tis death to me. Observe, it had not much
    Consoled the race of mastodons to know,
    Before they went to fossil, that anon
    Their place would quicken with the elephant.
    They were not elephants but mastodons;
    And I, a man, as men are now and not
    As men may be hereafter, feel with men
    In the agonising present."


    "Is it so,"
    I said, "my cousin? is the world so bad,
    While I hear nothing of it through the trees?
    The world was always evil, but so bad?"


    "So bad, Aurora. Dear, my soul is grey
    With poring over the long sum of ill;
    So much for vice, so much for discontent,
    So much for the necessities of power,
    So much for the connivances of fear,
    Coherent in statistical despairs
    With such a total of distracted life, . . .
    To see it down in figures on a page,
    Plain, silent, clear, as God sees through the earth
    The sense of all the graves, that's terrible
    For one who is not God, and cannot right
    The wrong he looks on. May I choose indeed,
    But vow away my years, my means, my aims,
    Among the helpers, if there's any help
    In such a social strait? The common blood
    That swings along my veins is strong enough
    To draw me to this duty."


    Then I spoke.
    "I have not stood long on the strand of life,
    And these salt waters have had scarcely time
    To creep so high up as to wet my feet:
    I cannot judge these tides I shall, perhaps.
    A woman's always younger than a man
    At equal years, because she is disallowed
    Maturing by the outdoor sun and air,
    And kept in long-clothes past the age to walk.
    Ah well, I know you men judge otherwise!
    You think a woman ripens, as a peach,
    In the cheeks chiefly. Pass it to me now;
    I'm young in age, and younger still, I think,
    As a woman. But a child may say amen
    To a bishop's prayer and feel the way it goes,
    And I, incapable to loose the knot
    Of social questions, can approve, applaud
    August compassion, Christian thoughts that shoot
    Beyond the vulgar white of personal aims.
    Accept my reverence."


    There he glowed on me
    With all his face and eyes. "No other help?"
    Said he "no more than so?"


    "What help?" I asked.
    "You'd scorn my help, as Nature's self, you say,
    Has scorned to put her music in my mouth
    Because a woman's. Do you now turn round
    And ask for what a woman cannot give?"


    "For what she only can, I turn and ask,"
    He answered, catching up my hands in his,
    And dropping on me from his high-eaved brow
    The full weight of his soul, "I ask for love,
    And that, she can; for life in fellowship
    Through bitter duties that, I know she can;
    For wifehood will she?"


    "Now," I said, "may God
    Be witness 'twixt us two!" and with the word,
    Meseemed I floated into a sudden light
    Above his stature, "am I proved too weak
    To stand alone, yet strong enough to bear
    Such leaners on my shoulder? poor to think,
    Yet rich enough to sympathise with thought?
    Incompetent to sing, as blackbirds can,
    Yet competent to love, like him?"


    I paused;
    Perhaps I darkened, as the lighthouse will
    That turns upon the sea. "It's always so.
    Anything does for a wife."


    "Aurora, dear,
    And dearly honoured," he pressed in at once
    With eager utterance, "you translate me ill.
    I do not contradict my thought of you
    Which is most reverent, with another thought
    Found less so. If your sex is weak for art
    (And I, who said so, did but honour you
    By using truth in courtship), it is strong
    For life and duty. Place your fecund heart
    In mine, and let us blossom for the world
    That wants love's colour in the grey of time.
    My talk, meanwhile, is arid to you, ay,
    Since all my talk can only set you where
    You look down coldly on the arena-heaps
    Of headless bodies, shapeless, indistinct!
    The Judgment-Angel scarce would find his way
    Through such a heap of generalised distress
    To the individual man with lips and eyes,
    Much less Aurora. Ah, my sweet, come down,
    And hand in hand we'll go where yours shall touch
    These victims, one by one! till, one by one,
    The formless, nameless trunk of every man
    Shall seem to wear a head with hair you know,
    And every woman catch your mother's face
    To melt you into passion."


    "I am a girl,"
    I answered slowly; "you do well to name
    My mother's face. Though far too early, alas,
    God's hand did interpose 'twixt it and me,
    I know so much of love as used to shine
    In that face and another. Just so much;
    No more indeed at all. I have not seen
    So much love since, I pray you pardon me,
    As answers even to make a marriage with
    In this cold land of England. What you love
    Is not a woman, Romney, but a cause:
    You want a helpmate, not a mistress, sir,
    A wife to help your ends, in her no end.
    Your cause is noble, your ends excellent,
    But I, being most unworthy of these and that,
    Do otherwise conceive of love. Farewell."


    "Farewell, Aurora? you reject me thus?"
    He said.


    "Sir, you were married long ago.
    You have a wife already whom you love,
    Your social theory. Bless you both, I say.
    For my part, I am scarcely meek enough
    To be the handmaid of a lawful spouse.
    Do I look a Hagar, think you?"


    "So you jest."


    "Nay, so, I speak in earnest," I replied.
    "You treat of marriage too much like, at least,
    A chief apostle: you would bear with you
    A wife . . . a sister . . . shall we speak it out?
    A sister of charity."


    "Then, must it be
    Indeed farewell? And was I so far wrong
    In hope and in illusion, when I took
    The woman to be nobler than the man,
    Yourself the noblest woman, in the use
    And comprehension of what love is, love,
    That generates the likeness of itself
    Through all heroic duties? so far wrong,
    In saying bluntly, venturing truth on love,
    'Come, human creature, love and work with me,'
    Instead of 'Lady, thou art wondrous fair,
    'And, where the Graces walk before, the Muse
    'Will follow at the lightning of their eyes,
    'And where the Muse walks, lovers need to creep:
    'Turn round and love me, or I die of love.'"


    With quiet indignation I broke in.
    "You misconceive the question like a man,
    Who sees a woman as the complement
    Of his sex merely. You forget too much
    That every creature, female as the male,
    Stands single in responsible act and thought
    As also in birth and death. Whoever says
    To a loyal woman, 'Love and work with me,'
    Will get fair answers if the work and love,
    Being good themselves, are good for her the best
    She was born for. Women of a softer mood,
    Surprised by men when scarcely awake to life,
    Will sometimes only hear the first word, love,
    And catch up with it any kind of work,
    Indifferent, so that dear love go with it.
    I do not blame such women, though, for love,
    They pick much oakum; earth's fanatics make
    Too frequently heaven's saints. But me your work
    Is not the best for, nor your love the best,
    Nor able to commend the kind of work
    For love's sake merely. Ah, you force me, sir,
    To be overbold in speaking of myself:
    I too have my vocation, work to do,
    The heavens and earth have set me since I changed
    My father's face for theirs, and, though your world
    Were twice as wretched as you represent,
    Most serious work, most necessary work
    As any of the economists'. Reform,
    Make trade a Christian possibility,
    And individual right no general wrong;
    Wipe out earth's furrows of the Thine and Mine,
    And leave one green for men to play at bowls,
    With innings for them all! . . . What then, indeed,
    If mortals are not greater by the head
    Than any of their prosperities? what then,
    Unless the artist keep up open roads
    Betwixt the seen and unseen, bursting through
    The best of your conventions with his best,
    The speakable, imaginable best
    God bids him speak, to prove what lies beyond
    Both speech and imagination? A starved man
    Exceeds a fat beast: we'll not barter, sir,
    The beautiful for barley. And, even so,
    I hold you will not compass your poor ends
    Of barley-feeding and material ease,
    Without a poet's individualism
    To work your universal. It takes a soul,
    To move a body: it takes a high-souled man,
    To move the masses, even to a cleaner stye:
    It takes the ideal, to blow a hair's-breadth off
    The dust of the actual. Ah, your Fouriers failed,
    Because not poets enough to understand
    That life develops from within. For me,
    Perhaps I am not worthy, as you say,
    Of work like this: perhaps a woman's soul
    Aspires, and not creates: yet we aspire,
    And yet I'll try out your perhapses, sir,
    And if I fail . . . why, burn me up my straw
    Like other false works I'll not ask for grace;
    Your scorn is better, cousin Romney. I
    Who love my art, would never wish it lower
    To suit my stature. I may love my art.
    You'll grant that even a woman may love art,
    Seeing that to waste true love on anything
    Is womanly, past question."


    I retain
    The very last word which I said that day,
    As you the creaking of the door, years past,
    Which let upon you such disabling news
    You ever after have been graver. He,
    His eyes, the motions in his silent mouth,
    Were fiery points on which my words were caught,
    Transfixed for ever in my memory
    For his sake, not their own. And yet I know
    I did not love him . . . nor he me . . . that's sure . . .
    And what I said is unrepented of,
    As truth is always. Yet . . . a princely man!
    If hard to me, heroic for himself!
    He bears down on me through the slanting years,
    The stronger for the distance. If he had loved,
    Ay, loved me, with that retributive face, . . .
    I might have been a common woman now
    And happier, less known and less left alone,
    Perhaps a better woman after all,
    With chubby children hanging on my neck
    To keep me low and wise. Ah me, the vines
    That bear such fruit are proud to stoop with it.
    The palm stands upright in a realm of sand.


    And I, who spoke the truth then, stand upright,
    Still worthy of having spoken out the truth,
    By being content I spoke it though it set
    Him there, me here. O woman's vile remorse,
    To hanker after a mere name, a show,
    A supposition, a potential love!
    Does every man who names love in our lives
    Become a power for that? is love's true thing
    So much best to us, that what personates love
    Is next best? A potential love, forsooth!
    I'm not so vile. No, no he cleaves, I think,
    This man, this image, chiefly for the wrong
    And shock he gave my life, in finding me
    Precisely where the devil of my youth
    Had set me, on those mountain-peaks of hope
    All glittering with the dawn-dew, all erect
    And famished for the noon, exclaiming, while
    I looked for empire and much tribute, "Come,
    I have some worthy work for thee below.
    Come, sweep my barns and keep my hospitals,
    And I will pay thee with a current coin
    Which men give women."


    As we spoke, the grass
    Was trod in haste beside us, and my aunt,
    With smile distorted by the sun, face, voice
    As much at issue with the summer-day
    As if you brought a candle out of doors,
    Broke in with "Romney, here! My child, entreat
    Your cousin to the house, and have your talk,
    If girls must talk upon their birthdays. Come."


    He answered for me calmly, with pale lips
    That seemed to motion for a smile in vain,
    "The talk is ended, madam, where we stand.
    Your brother's daughter has dismissed me here;
    And all my answer can be better said
    Beneath the trees, than wrong by such a word
    Your house's hospitalities. Farewell."


    With that he vanished. I could hear his heel
    Ring bluntly in the lane, as down he leapt
    The short way from us. Then a measured speech
    Withdrew me. "What means this, Aurora Leigh?
    My brother's daughter has dismissed my guests?"


    The lion in me felt the keeper's voice
    Through all its quivering dewlaps; I was quelled
    Before her, meekened to the child she knew:
    I prayed her pardon, said "I had little thought
    To give dismissal to a guest of hers,
    In letting go a friend of mine who came
    To take me into service as a wife,
    No more than that, indeed."


    "No more, no more?
    Pray Heaven," she answered, "that I was not mad.
    I could not mean to tell her to her face
    That Romney Leigh had asked me for a wife,
    And I refused him?"


    "Did he ask?" I said;
    "I think he rather stooped to take me up
    For certain uses which he found to do
    For something called a wife. He never asked."


    "What stuff!" she answered; "are they queens, these girls?
    They must have mantles, stitched with twenty silks,
    Spread out upon the ground, before they'll step
    One footstep for the noblest lover born."
    "But I am born," I said with firmness, "I,
    To walk another way than his, dear aunt."


    "You walk, you walk! A babe at thirteen months
    Will walk as well as you," she cried in haste,
    "Without a steadying finger. Why, you child,
    God help you, you are groping in the dark,
    For all this sunlight. You suppose, perhaps,
    That you, sole offspring of an opulent man,
    Are rich and free to choose a way to walk?
    You think, and it's a reasonable thought,
    That I, beside, being well to do in life,
    Will leave my handful in my niece's hand
    When death shall paralyse these fingers? Pray,
    Pray, child, albeit I know you love me not,
    As if you loved me, that I may not die!
    For when I die and leave you, out you go
    (Unless I make room for you in my grave),
    Unhoused, unfed, my dear poor brother's lamb
    (Ah heaven! that pains!) without a right to crop
    A single blade of grass beneath these trees,
    Or cast a lamb's small shadow on the lawn,
    Unfed, unfolded! Ah, my brother, here's
    The fruit you planted in your foreign loves!
    Ay, there's the fruit he planted! never look
    Astonished at me with your mother's eyes,
    For it was they who set you where you are,
    An undowered orphan. Child, your father's choice
    Of that said mother disinherited
    His daughter, his and hers. Men do not think
    Of sons and daughters, when they fall in love,
    So much more than of sisters; otherwise
    He would have paused to ponder what he did,
    And shrunk before that clause in the entail
    Excluding offspring by a foreign wife
    (The clause set up a hundred years ago
    By a Leigh who wedded a French dancing-girl
    And had his heart danced over in return);
    But this man shrank at nothing, never thought
    Of you, Aurora, any more than me
    Your mother must have been a pretty thing,
    For all the coarse Italian blacks and browns,
    To make a good man, which my brother was,
    Unchary of the duties to his house;
    But so it fell indeed. Our cousin Vane,
    Vane Leigh, the father of this Romney, wrote
    Directly on your birth, to Italy,
    'I ask your baby daughter for my son,
    In whom the entail now merges by the law.
    Betroth her to us out of love, instead
    Of colder reasons, and she shall not lose
    By love or law from henceforth' so he wrote;
    A generous cousin was my cousin Vane.
    Remember how he drew you to his knee
    The year you came here, just before he died,
    And hollowed out his hands to hold your cheeks,
    And wished them redder, you remember Vane.
    And now his son, who represents our house,
    And holds the fiefs and manors in his place,
    To whom reverts my pittance when I die
    (Except a few books and a pair of shawls),
    The boy is generous like him, and prepared
    To carry out his kindest word and thought
    To you, Aurora. Yes, a fine young man
    Is Romney Leigh; although the sun of youth
    Has shone too straight upon his brain, I know,
    And fevered him with dreams of doing good
    To good-for-nothing people. But a wife
    Will put all right, and stroke his temples cool
    With healthy touches." . . .


    I broke in at that.
    I could not lift my heavy heart to breathe
    Till, then, but then I raised it, and it fell
    In broken words like these "No need to wait:
    The dream of doing good to . . . me, at least,
    Is ended, without waiting for a wife
    To cool the fever for him. We've escaped
    That danger, thank Heaven for it."


        "You," she cried,
    "Have got a fever. What, I talk and talk
    An hour long to you, I instruct you how
    You cannot eat or drink or stand or sit
    Or even die, like any decent wretch
    In all this unroofed and unfurnished world,
    Without your cousin, and you still maintain
    There's room 'twixt him and you for flirting fans
    And running knots in eyebrows? You must have
    A pattern lover sighing on his knee?
    You do not count enough, a noble heart
    (Above book-patterns) which this very morn
    Unclosed itself in two dear fathers' names
    To embrace your orphaned life? Fie, fie! But stay,
    I write a word, and counteract this sin."


    She would have turned to leave me, but I clung.
    "O sweet my father's sister, hear my word
    Before you write yours. Cousin Vane did well,
    And cousin Romney well, and I well too,
    In casting back with all my strength and will
    The good they meant me. O my God, my God!
    God meant me good, too, when He hindered me
    From saying 'yes' this morning. If you write
    A word, it shall be 'no.' I say no, no!
    I tie up 'no' upon His altar-horns,
    Quite out of reach of perjury! At least
    My soul is not a pauper; I can live
    At least my soul's life, without alms from men;
    And if it must be in heaven instead of earth,
    Let heaven look to it, I am not afraid."


    She seized my hands with both hers, strained them fast,
    And drew her probing and unscrupulous eyes
    Right through me, body and heart. "Yet, foolish Sweet,
    You love this man. I've watched you when he came,
    And when he went, and when we've talked of him:
    I am not old for nothing; I can tell
    The weather-signs of love: you love this man."


    Girls blush sometimes because they are alive,
    Half wishing they were dead to save the shame.
    The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow;
    They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats,
    And flare up bodily, wings and all. What then?
    Who's sorry for a gnat . . . or girl?


            I blushed.
    I feel the brand upon my forehead now
    Strike hot, sear deep, as guiltless men may feel
    The felon's iron, say, and scorn the mark
    Of what they are not. Most illogical
    Irrational nature of our womanhood,
    That blushes one way, feels another way,
    And prays, perhaps, another! After all,
    We cannot be the equal of the male
    Who rules his blood a little.


    For although
    I blushed indeed, as if I loved the man,
    And her incisive smile, accrediting
    That treason of false witness in my blush,
    Did bow me downward like a swathe of grass
    Below its level that struck me, I attest
    The conscious skies and all their daily suns,
    I think I loved him not, nor then, nor since,
    Nor ever. Do we love the schoolmaster,
    Being busy in the woods? much less, being poor,
    The overseer of the parish? Do we keep
    Our love to pay our debts with?


    White and cold
    I grew next moment. As my blood recoiled
    From that imputed ignominy, I made
    My heart great with it. Then, at last, I spoke,
    Spoke veritable words but passionate,
    Too passionate perhaps . . . ground up with sobs
    To shapeless endings. She let fall my hands
    And took her smile off, in sedate disgust,
    As peradventure she had touched a snake,
    A dead snake, mind! and, turning round, replied,
    "We'll leave Italian manners, if you please.
    I think you had an English father, child,
    And ought to find it possible to speak
    A quiet 'yes' or 'no,' like English girls,
    Without convulsions. In another month
    We'll take another answer no, or yes."
    With that, she left me in the garden-walk.


    I had a father! yes, but long ago
    How long it seemed that moment. Oh, how far,
    How far and safe, God, dost thou keep thy saints
    When once gone from us! We may call against
    The lighted windows of thy fair June-heaven
    Where all the souls are happy, and not one,
    Not even my father, look from work or play
    To ask, "Who is it that cries after us,
    Below there, in the dusk?" Yet formerly
    He turned his face upon me quick enough,
    If I said "father." Now I might cry loud;
    The little lark reached higher with his song
    Than I with crying. Oh, alone, alone,
    Not troubling any in heaven, nor any on earth,
    I stood there in the garden, and looked up
    The deaf blue sky that brings the roses out
    On such June mornings.


    You who keep account
    Of crisis and transition in this life,
    Set down the first time Nature says plain "no"
    To some "yes" in you, and walks over you
    In gorgeous sweeps of scorn. We all begin
    By singing with the birds, and running fast
    With June-days, hand in hand: but once, for all,
    The birds must sing against us, and the sun
    Strike down upon us like a friend's sword caught
    By an enemy to slay us, while we read
    The dear name on the blade which bites at us!
    That's bitter and convincing: after that,
    We seldom doubt that something in the large
    Smooth order of creation, though no more
    Than haply a man's footstep, has gone wrong.
    Some tears fell down my cheeks, and then I smiled,
    As those smile who have no face in the world
    To smile back to them. I had lost a friend
    In Romney Leigh; the thing was sure a friend,
    Who had looked at me most gently now and then,
    And spoken of my favourite books, "our books,"
    With such a voice! Well, voice and look were now
    More utterly shut out from me I felt,
    Than even my father's. Romney now was turned
    To a benefactor, to a generous man,
    Who had tied himself to marry . . . me, instead
    Of such a woman, with low timorous lids
    He lifted with a sudden word one day,
    And left, perhaps, for my sake. Ah, self-tied
    By a contract, male Iphigenia bound
    At a fatal Aulis for the winds to change
    (But loose him, they'll not change), he well might seem
    A little cold and dominant in love!
    He had a right to be dogmatical,
    This poor, good Romney. Love, to him, was made
    A simple law-clause. If I married him,
    I should not dare to call my soul my own
    Which so he had bought and paid for: every thought
    And every heart-beat down there in the bill;
    Not one found honestly deductible
    From any use that pleased him! He might cut
    My body into coins to give away
    Among his other paupers; change my sons,
    While I stood dumb as Griseld, for black babes
    Or piteous foundlings; might unquestioned set
    My right hand teaching in the Ragged Schools,
    My left hand washing in the Public Baths,
    What time my angel of the Ideal stretched
    Both his to me in vain. I could not claim
    The poor right of a mouse in a trap, to squeal,
    And take so much as pity from myself.


    Farewell, good Romney! if I loved you even,
    I could but ill afford to let you be
    So generous to me. Farewell, friend, since friend
    Betwixt us two, forsooth, must be a word
    So heavily overladen. And, since help
    Must come to me from those who love me not,
    Farewell, all helpers I must help myself,
    And am alone from henceforth. Then I stooped
    And lifted the soiled garland from the earth,
    And set it on my head as bitterly
    As when the Spanish monarch crowned the bones
    Of his dead love. So be it. I preserve
    That crown still, in the drawer there! 'twas the first.
    The rest are like it; those Olympian crowns,
    We run for, till we lose sight of the sun
    In the dust of the racing chariots!


        After that,
    Before the evening fell, I had a note,
    Which ran, "Aurora, sweet Chaldean, you read
    My meaning backward like your eastern books,
    While I am from the west, dear. Read me now
    A little plainer. Did you hate me quite
    But yesterday? I loved you for my part;
    I love you. If I spoke untenderly
    This morning, my beloved, pardon it;
    And comprehend me that I loved you so
    I set you on the level of my soul,
    And overwashed you with the bitter brine
    Of some habitual thoughts. Henceforth, my flower,
    Be planted out of reach of any such,
    And lean the side you please, with all your leaves!
    Write woman's verses and dream woman's dreams;
    But let me feel your perfume in my home
    To make my sabbath after working-days.
    Bloom out your youth beside me, be my wife."


    I wrote in answer "We Chaldeans discern
    Still farther than we read. I know your heart,
    And shut it like the holy book it is,
    Reserved for mild-eyed saints to pore upon
    Betwixt their prayers at vespers. Well, you're right,
    I did not surely hate you yesterday;
    And yet I do not love you enough to-day
    To wed you, cousin Romney. Take this word,
    And let it stop you as a generous man
    From speaking farther. You may tease, indeed,
    And blow about my feelings, or my leaves,
    And here's my aunt will help you with east winds
    And break a stalk, perhaps, tormenting me;
    But certain flowers grow near as deep as trees,
    And, cousin, you'll not move my root, not you,
    With all your confluent storms. Then let me grow
    Within my wayside hedge, and pass your way!
    This flower has never as much to say to you
    As the antique tomb which said to travellers, 'Pause,
    'Siste, viator.'" Ending thus, I sighed.


    The next week passed in silence, so the next,
    And several after: Romney did not come
    Nor my aunt chide me. I lived on and on,
    As if my heart were kept beneath a glass,
    And everybody stood, all eyes and ears,
    To see and hear it tick. I could not sit,
    Nor walk, nor take a book, nor lay it down,
    Nor sew on steadily, nor drop a stitch,
    And a sigh with it, but I felt her looks
    Still cleaving to me, like the sucking asp
    To Cleopatra's breast, persistently
    Through the intermittent pantings. Being observed,
    When observation is not sympathy,
    Is just being tortured. If she said a word,
    A "thank you," or an "if it please you, dear,"
    She meant a commination, or, at best,
    An exorcism against the devildom
    Which plainly held me. So with all the house.
    Susannah could not stand and twist my hair
    Without such glancing at the looking-glass
    To see my face there, that she missed the plait.
    And John, I never sent my plate for soup,
    Or did not send it, but the foolish John
    Resolved the problem, 'twixt his napkined thumbs,
    Of what was signified by taking soup
    Or choosing mackerel. Neighbours who drooped in
    On morning visits, feeling a joint wrong,
    Smiled admonition, sat uneasily,
    And talked, with measured, emphasised reserve,
    Of parish news, like doctors to the sick,
    When not called in, as if, with leave to speak,
    They might say something. Nay, the very dog
    Would watch me from his sun-patch on the floor,
    In alternation with the large black fly
    Not yet in reach of snapping. So I lived.


    A Roman died so; smeared with honey, teased
    By insects, stared to torture by the noon:
    And many patient souls 'neath English roofs
    Have died like Romans. I, in looking back,
    Wish only, now, I had borne the plague of all
    With meeker spirits than were rife at Rome.


    For, on the sixth week, the dead sea broke up,
    Dashed suddenly through beneath the heel of Him
    Who stands upon the sea and earth and swears
    Time shall be nevermore. The clock struck nine
    That morning too, no lark was out of tune,
    The hidden farms among the hills breathed straight
    Their smoke toward heaven, the lime-tree scarcely stirred
    Beneath the blue weight of the cloudless sky,
    Though still the July air came floating through
    The woodbine at my window, in and out,
    With touches of the out-door country news
    For a bending forehead. There I sat, and wished
    That morning-truce of God would last till eve,
    Or longer. "Sleep," I thought, "late sleepers, sleep,
    And spare me yet the burden of your eyes."


    Then, suddenly, a single ghastly shriek
    Tore upward from the bottom of the house.
    Like one who wakens in a grave and shrieks,
    The still house seemed to shriek itself alive,
    And shudder through its passages and stairs
    With slam of doors and clash of bells. I sprang,
    I stood up in the middle of the room,
    And there confronted at my chamber-door
    A white face, shivering, ineffectual lips.


    "Come, come," they tried to utter, and I went:
    As if a ghost had drawn me at the point
    Of a fiery finger through the uneven dark,
    I went with reeling footsteps down the stair,
    Nor asked a question.


    There she sat, my aunt,
    Bolt upright in the chair beside her bed,
    Whose pillow had no dint! she had used no bed
    For that night's sleeping, yet slept well. My God,
    The dumb derision of that grey, peaked face
    Concluded something grave against the sun,
    Which filled the chamber with its July burst
    When Susan drew the curtains ignorant
    Of who sat open-eyed behind her. There
    She sat . . . it sat . . . we said "she" yesterday . . .
    And held a letter with unbroken seal
    As Susan gave it to her hand last night:
    All night she had held it. If its news referred
    To duchies or to dunghills, not an inch
    She'd budge, 'twas obvious, for such worthless odds:
    Nor, though the stars were suns and overburned
    Their spheric limitations, swallowing up
    Like wax the azure spaces, could they force
    Those open eyes to wink once. What last sight
    Had left them blank and flat so, drawing out
    The faculty of vision from the roots,
    As nothing more, worth seeing, remained behind?


    Were those the eyes that watched me, worried me?
    That dogged me up and down the hours and days,
    A beaten, breathless, miserable soul?
    And did I pray, a half-hour back, but so,
    To escape the burden of those eyes . . . those eyes?
    "Sleep late" I said?


    Why, now, indeed, they sleep.
    God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers,
    And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face,
    A gauntlet with a gift in't. Every wish
    Is like a prayer, with God.


    I had my wish,
    To read and meditate the thing I would,
    To fashion all my life upon my thought,
    And marry or not marry. Henceforth none
    Could disapprove me, vex me, hamper me.
    Full ground-room, in this desert newly made,
    For Babylon or Baalbec, when the breath,
    Now choked with sand, returns for building towns.


    The heir came over on the funeral day,
    And we two cousins met before the dead,
    With two pale faces. Was it death or life
    That moved us? When the will was read and done,
    The official guests and witnesses withdrawn,
    We rose up in a silence almost hard,
    And looked at one another. Then I said,
    "Farewell, my cousin."


    But he touched, just touched
    My hatstrings, tied for going (at the door
    The carriage stood to take me), and said low,
    His voice a little unsteady through his smile,
    "Siste, viator."


    "Is there time," I asked,
    "In these last days of railroads, to stop short
    Like Cæsar's chariot (weighing half a ton)
    On the Appian road, for morals?"


    "There is time,"
    He answered grave, "for necessary words,
    Inclusive, trust me, of no epitaph
    On man or act, my cousin. We have read
    A will, which gives you all the personal goods
    And funded moneys of your aunt."


    "I thank
    Her memory for it. With three hundred pounds
    We buy, in England even, clear standing-room
    To stand and work in. Only two hours since,
    I fancied I was poor."


    "And, cousin, still
    You're richer than you fancy. The will says,
    Three hundred pounds, and any other sum
    Of which the said testatrix dies possessed.
    I say she died possessed of other sums."


    "Dear Romney, need we chronicle the pence?
    I'm richer than I thought that's evident.
    Enough so."


    "Listen rather. You've to do
    With business and a cousin," he resumed,
    "And both, I fear, need patience. Here's the fact.
    The other sum (there is another sum,
    Unspecified in any will which dates
    After possession, yet bequeathed as much
    And clearly as those said three hundred pounds)
    Is thirty thousand. You will have it paid
    When? . . . where? My duty troubles you with words."


    He struck the iron when the bar was hot;
    No wonder if my eyes sent out some sparks.
    "Pause there! I thank you. You are delicate
    In glosing gifts; but I, who share your blood,
    Am rather made for giving, like yourself,
    Than taking, like your pensioners. Farewell."


    He stopped me with a gesture of calm pride.
    "A Leigh," he said, "gives largesse and gives love,
    But gloses never: if a Leigh could glose,
    He would not do it, moreover, to a Leigh,
    With blood trained up along nine centuries
    To hound and hate a lie from eyes like yours.
    And now we'll make the rest as clear: your aunt
    Possessed these moneys."


    "You will make it clear,
    My cousin, as the honour of us both,
    Or one of us speaks vainly! that's not I.
    My aunt possessed this sum, inherited
    From whom, and when? bring documents, prove dates."


    "Why now indeed you throw your bonnet off
    As if you had time left for a logarithm!
    The faith's the want. Dear cousin, give me faith,
    And you shall walk this road with silken shoes,
    As clean as any lady of our house
    Supposed the proudest. Oh, I comprehend
    The whole position from your point of sight.
    I oust you from your father's halls and lands
    And make you poor by getting rich that's law;
    Considering which, in common circumstance,
    You would not scruple to accept from me
    Some compensation, some sufficiency
    Of income that were justice; but, alas,
    I love you, that's mere nature; you reject
    My love, that's nature also; and at once,
    You cannot, from a suitor disallowed,
    A hand thrown back as mine is, into yours
    Receive a doit, a farthing, not for the world!
    That's woman's etiquette, and obviously
    Exceeds the claim of nature, law, and right,
    Unanswerable to all. I grant, you see,
    The case as you conceive it, leave you room
    To sweep your ample skirts of womanhood,
    While, standing humbly squeezed against the wall,
    I own myself excluded from being just,
    Restrained from paying indubitable debts,
    Because denied from giving you my soul.
    That's my misfortune! I submit to it
    As if, in some more reasonable age,
    'Twould not be less inevitable. Enough.
    You'll trust me, cousin, as a gentleman,
    To keep your honour, as you count it, pure,
    Your scruples (just as if I thought them wise)
    Safe and inviolate from gifts of mine."
    I answered mild but earnest. "I believe
    In no one's honour which another keeps,
    Nor man's nor woman's. As I keep, myself,
    My truth and my religion, I depute
    No father, though I had one this side death,
    Nor brother, though I had twenty, much less you,
    Though twice my cousin, and once Romney Leigh,
    To keep my honour pure. You face, to-day,
    A man who wants instruction, mark me, not
    A woman who wants protection. As to a man,
    Show manhood, speak out plainly, be precise
    With facts and dates. My aunt inherited
    This sum, you say "


    "I said she died possessed
    Of this, dear cousin."


    "Not by heritage.
    Thank you: we're getting to the facts at last.
    Perhaps she played at commerce with a ship
    Which came in heavy with Australian gold?
    Or touched a lottery with her finger-end,
    Which tumbled on a sudden into her lap
    Some old Rhine tower or principality?
    Perhaps she had to do with a marine
    Sub-transatlantic railroad, which pre-pays
    As well as pre-supposes? or perhaps
    Some stale ancestral debt was after-paid
    By a hundred years, and took her by surprise?
    You shake your head, my cousin; I guess ill."


    "You need not guess, Aurora, nor deride;
    The truth is not afraid of hurting you.
    You'll find no cause, in all your scruples, why
    Your aunt should cavil at a deed of gift
    'Twixt her and me."


    "I thought so ah! a gift."


    "You naturally thought so," he resumed.
    "A very natural gift."


    "A gift, a gift!
    Her individual life being stranded high
    Above all want, approaching opulence,
    Too haughty was she to accept a gift
    Without some ultimate aim: ah, ah, I see,
    A gift intended plainly for her heirs,
    And so accepted . . . if accepted . . . ah,
    Indeed that might be; I am snared perhaps
    Just so. But, cousin, shall I pardon you,
    If thus you have caught me with a cruel springe?"


    He answered gently, "Need you tremble and pant
    Like a netted lioness? is't my fault, mine,
    That you're a grand wild creature of the woods
    And hate the stall built for you? Any way,
    Though triply netted, need you glare at me?
    I do not hold the cords of such a net;
    You're free from me, Aurora!"


    "Now may God
    Deliver me from this strait! This gift of yours
    Was tendered . . . when? accepted . . . when?" I asked.
    "A month . . . a fortnight since? Six weeks ago
    It was not tendered; by a word she dropped
    I know it was not tendered nor received.
    When was it? bring your dates."


    "What matters when?
    A half-hour ere she died, or a half-year,
    Secured the gift, maintains the heritage
    Inviolable with law. As easy pluck
    The golden stars from heaven's embroidered stole
    To pin them on the grey side of this earth,
    As make you poor again, thank God."


        "Net poor
    Nor clean again from henceforth, you thank God?
    Well, sir I ask you I insist at need,
    Vouchsafe the special date, the special date."


    "The day before her death-day," he replied,
    "The gift was in her hands. We'll find that deed,
    And certify that date to you."


    As one
    Who has climbed a mountain-height and carried up
    His own heart climbing, panting in his throat
    With the toil of the ascent, takes breath at last,
    Looks back in triumph so I stood and looked.
    "Dear cousin Romney, we have reached the top
    Of this steep question, and may rest, I think.
    But first, I pray you pardon, that the shock
    And surge of natural feeling and event
    Has made me oblivious of acquainting you
    That this, this letter (unread, mark, still sealed),
    Was found enfolded in the poor dead hand:
    That spirit of hers had gone beyond the address,
    Which could not find her though you wrote it clear,
    I know your writing, Romney, recognise
    The open-hearted A, the liberal sweep
    Of the G. Now listen, let us understand:
    You will not find that famous deed of gift,
    Unless you find it in the letter here,
    Which, not being mine, I give you back. Refuse
    To take the letter? well then you and I,
    As writer and as heiress, open it
    Together, by your leave. Exactly so:
    The words in which the noble offering's made
    Are nobler still, my cousin; and, I own,
    The proudest and most delicate heart alive,
    Distracted from the measure of the gift
    By such a grace in giving, might accept
    Your largesse without thinking any more
    Of the burthen of it, than King Solomon
    Considered, when he wore his holy ring
    Charactered over with the ineffable spell,
    How many carats of fine gold made up
    Its money-value: so, Leigh gives to Leigh!
    Or rather, might have given, observe, for that's
    The point we come to. Here's a proof of gift,
    But here's no proof, sir, of acceptancy,
    But, rather, disproof. Death's black dust, being blown,
    Infiltrated through every secret fold
    Of this sealed letter by a puff of fate,
    Dried up for ever the fresh-written ink,
    Annulled the gift, disutilised the grace,
    And left these fragments."


    As I spoke, I tore
    The paper up and down, and down and up
    And crosswise, till it fluttered from my hands,
    As forest-leaves, stripped suddenly and rapt
    By a whirlwind on Valdarno, drop again,
    Drop slow, and strew the melancholy ground
    Before the amazèd hills . . . why, so, indeed,
    I'm writing like a poet, somewhat large
    In the type of the image, and exaggerate
    A small thing with a great thing, topping it:
    But then I'm thinking how his eyes looked, his,
    With what despondent and surprised reproach!
    I think the tears were in them as he looked;
    I think the manly mouth just trembled. Then
    He broke the silence.


    "I may ask, perhaps,
    Although no stranger . . . only Romney Leigh,
    Which means still less . . . than Vincent Carrington,
    Your plans in going hence, and where you go.
    This cannot be a secret."


    "All my life
    Is open to you, cousin. I go hence
    To London, to the gathering-place of souls,
    To live mine straight out, vocally, in books;
    Harmoniously for others, if indeed
    A woman's soul, like man's, be wide enough
    To carry the whole octave (that's to prove),
    Or, if I fail, still purely for myself.
    Pray God be with me, Romney."


    "Ah, poor child,
    Who fight against the mother's 'tiring hand,
    And choose the headsman's! May God change His world
    For your sake, sweet, and make it mild as heaven,
    And juster than I have found you."


    But I paused.
    "And you, my cousin?"


    "I," he said, "you ask?
    You care to ask? Well, girls have curious minds
    And fain would know the end of everything,
    Of cousins therefore with the rest. For me,
    Aurora, I've my work; you know my work;
    And, having missed this year some personal hope,
    I must beware the rather that I miss
    No reasonable duty. While you sing
    Your happy pastorals of the meads and trees,
    Bethink you that I go to impress and prove
    On stifled brains and deafened ears, stunned deaf,
    Crushed dull with grief, that nature sings itself,
    And needs no mediate poet, lute or voice,
    To make it vocal. While you ask of men
    Your audience, I may get their leave perhaps
    For hungry orphans to say audibly
    'We're hungry, see,' for beaten and bullied wives
    To hold their unweaned babies up in sight,
    Whom orphanage would better, and for all
    To speak and claim their portion . . . by no means
    Of the soil, . . . but of the sweat in tilling it;
    Since this is nowadays turned privilege,
    To have only God's curse on us, and not man's.
    Such work I have for doing, elbow-deep
    In social problems, as you tie your rhymes,
    To draw my uses to cohere with needs
    And bring the uneven world back to its round,
    Or, failing so much, fill up, bridge at least
    To smoother issues some abysmal cracks
    And feuds of earth, intestine heats have made
    To keep men separate, using sorry shifts
    Of hospitals, almshouses, infant schools,
    And other practical stuff of partial good
    You lovers of the beautiful and whole
    Despise by system."


    "I despise? The scorn
    Is yours, my cousin. Poets become such
    Through scorning nothing. You decry them for
    The good of beauty sung and taught by them,
    While they respect your practical partial good
    As being a part of beauty's self. Adieu!
    When God helps all the workers for His world,
    The singers shall have help of Him, not last."


    He smiled as men smile when they will not speak
    Because of something bitter in the thought;
    And still I feel his melancholy eyes
    Look judgment on me. It is seven years since:
    I know not if 'twas pity or 'twas scorn
    Has made them so far-reaching: judge it ye
    Who have had to do with pity more than love
    And scorn than hatred. I am used, since then,
    To other ways, from equal men. But so,
    Even so, we let go hands, my cousin and I,
    And in between us rushed the torrent-world
    To blanch our faces like divided rocks,
    And bar for ever mutual sight and touch
    Except through swirl of spray and all that roar.