[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.