Aurora Leigh (excerpts)
[Book 1]I am like,
tell me, my dear father. Broader brows
, upon a slenderer undergrowth
Of delicate features, -- paler, near as grave ;
But the whole,
And makes it better sometimes tself.
So, nine full years, our days were h God
Among ains : I teen,
Still gros from unseen roots
In tongue-tied Springs, -- and suddenly awoke
to full life and life s needs and agonies,
itense, strong, struggling beside
A stone-dead fatruck sh,
Makes awful lig word was, `Love --
`Love, my ch grief)
`Love, my child. Ere I answered he was gone,
And none to love in all the world.
t succeeded next
I recollect as, after fevers, men
the passage of delirium,
Missing turn still, baffled by the door ;
Smootch knives ;
A he flank
it it s and end itself
Like some tormented scorpion. t last
I do remember clearly, here came
A stranger y, not right,
(I t not) w me up
From old Assuntas neck ; h a shriek,
S me go, -- woo full
Of my fato shriek back a word,
In all a conis at grief
Stared at tood and moaned,
My poor Assunta, wood and moaned !
te aly,
Draeamer-deck,
Like one in anger drawing back s
s catc. tter sea
Inexorably push,
And sh my despair
t as a pasture to tars.
ten nighe deep ;
ten nig the common face
Of any day or nighe moon and sun
Cut off from th,
to starve into a blind ferocity
And glare unnatural ; the very sky
(Dropping its bell-net dohe sea
As if no should scape alive,)
Bedraggled ing salt,
Until it seemed no more t holy heaven
to range
turned stranger, for a child.
ty cliffs
Looked cold upon me. Could I find a home
Among the fog ?
And w
From alien lips which had no kiss for mine
I aloud, t, t,
And some one near me said the child was mad
train s us on.
as t isle ?
t up from the fellowship
Of verdure, field from field, as man from man ;
tive,
As almost you could touch a hand,
And dared to do it they were so far off
From Gods celestial crystals ; all things blurred
And dull and vague. Did Ses
Absorb t a one
it to strike a radiant colour up
Or active outline on t air.
I ter stand
Upon tep of ry-house
to give me raight and calm,
narro
As if for taming accidental ts
From possible pulses ; brown h grey
By frigid use of life, (s old
Althers elder by a year)
A nose drae lines ;
A close mild mouttle soured about
ted loves
Or peradventure niggardly ruths ;
Eyes of no colour, -- once t have smiled,
But never, never themselves
In smiling ; c a rose
Of perished summers, like a rose in a book,
Kept more for rut bloom,
Past fading also.
She had lived, well say,
A uous life,
A quiet life, all,
(But t, s lived enougo know)
Betry squires,
tenant looking doimes
From to assure their souls
Against che abyss
thecary, looked on once a year
to prove ty.
tian gifts
Of knitting stockings, stitcticoats,
Because we are of one fleser all
And need one flannel (h a proper sense
Of difference in ty) -- and still
trick
Of sions from the crease,
Preserved ellectual. She had lived
A sort of cage-bird life, born in a cage,
Accounting t to leap from perco perch
as act and joy enough for any bird.
Dear live
In ts, and eat berries !
I, alas,
A wild bird scarcely fledged, was brougo her cage,
And so meet me. Very kind.
Bring ter, give out the fresh seed.
Sood upon teps to welcome me,
Calm, in black garb. I clung about her neck, --
Young babes, wc every shred of wool
to dra closer, catch and cling
Less blindly. In my ears, my fathers word
ly, as the sea in shells,
`Love, love, my ch my grief,
Miger once,
I clung to , she seemed moved,
Kissed me o cling,
And dreo
te in.
trange spasm
Of pain and passion, she wrung loose my hands
Imperiously, and arms length,
And eel naked-bladed eyes
Searcabbed it through,
to find
A face,
If not h,
Sruggled for her ordinary calm
And missed it ratold me not to shrink,
As if sold me not to lie or swear, --
`Soo
As long as I deserved it. Very kind.
[Book 5]
AURORA LEIGh, be humble. Shall I hope
to speak my poems in mysterious tune
iture ? -- he lava-lymph
t trickles from successive galaxies
Still drop by drop adohe finger of God
In still nehis ?
t scarce dare breatiful ?--
itrouble in the ground,
tormented by ts,
And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves
In token of t-time of flowers ?--
iters and umns, -- and beyond,
its large seasons, w hopes
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves ? -- strain
Of sexual passion, whe flesh
In a sacrament of souls ? s
ures here,
throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres ? --
ititudinous life, and finally
it escapings of ecstatic souls,
oo long prisoned flame,
t faces upward, burn away
the body, issuing on a world,
Beyond our mortal ? -- can I speak my verse
Sp plainly in tune to t,
t men s catche quick,
As over them
to hey will or no,
Alike imperious as thm
Of t ture ? I must fail,
to hold and move
One man, -- and he my cousin, and he my friend,
And ender, made intelligent,
Inclined to ponder tous sides
Of difficult questions ; yet, obtuse to me,
Of me, incurious ! likes me very well,
And wishes me a paradise of good,
Good looks, good means, and good digestion, -- ay,
But ots me off
itolerant gentleness, --
too light a book for a grave mans reading ! Go,
Aurora Leigh : be humble.
t is,
e oo apt to look to One,
ain impotence in art.
e strain our natures at doing somet,
Far less because it s somet to do,
t we, so, commend ourselves
As being not small, and more appreciable
to some one friend. e must ors
Bet our conscience and the judge ;
Some s saints blood must quicken in our palms
Or all the life in heaven seems slow and cold :
Good only being perceived as the end of good,
And God alone pleased, -- ts too poor, hink,
And not enough for us by any means.
Ay, Romney, I remember, told me once
e miss tract when we comprehend.
e miss it most when we aspire, -- and fail.
Yet, so, I . -- this vile womans way
Of trailing garments, s trip me up :
I ll raffic
In arts pure temple. Must I work in vain,
it tion of a man ?
It cannot be ; it s. Fame itself,
t approbation of the general race,
Presents a poor end, (the arrow speed,
S straigo te,)
And t fame was never reac
By . Art for art,
And good for God ial Good !
e ll keep our aims sublime, our eyes erect,
Although our woman-hands should shake and fail ;
And if must we ? --
Shall I fail ?
tragic phrase,
`Let no one be called ill h.
to ill h
Be called un the work
Until t and the labour done,
t,
scant ; affect no compromise ;
And, in t least,
Deal hough we be.
And rut h praise.