The white-veiled rose-crowned maidens holding up There drifted past him (scarcely marked enoughĪ train of priestly banners, cross and psalm,–
In Florence, where he had come to spend a monthĪnd note the secret of Da Vinci's drains, His whole provisioned and complacent pastĭrowned out from him that moment.
In college-learning, law, and parish talk, So mothers have God's licence to be missed. –Mine did, I know,–but still with heavier brains, Which burns and hurts not,–not a single bloom,– Which things are corals to cut life upon,Īlthough such trifles: children learn by such,īut seeing, as in a rose-bush, Love's Divine, The way to rear up children, (to be just,)Īnd stringing pretty words that make no sense, Grown chill through something being away, though what Left out at night, in shutting up the fold,– It might have steadied the uneasy breath,Īnd still went seeking, like a bleating lamb She could not bear the joy of giving life– When scarcely I was four years old my life,Ī poor spark snatched up from a failing lamp Whose rare blue eyes were shut from seeing me I'm still too young, too young to sit alone. Stroke the poor hair down, stroke it heavily,–ĭraw, press the child's head closer to thy knee! Stroke out my childish curls across his knee My father's slow hand, when she had left us both, Leap forward, taking part against her word 'Hush, hush–here's too much noise!' while her sweet eyes Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep I have not so far left the coasts of life
I, writing thus, am still what men call young
Long after he has ceased to love you, just THE words 'cousin' and 'friend' are constantly recurring in this poem, the last pages of which have been finished under the hospitality of your roof, my own dearest cousin and friend:–cousin and friend, in a sense of less equality and greater disinterestedness than 'Romney' 's.Įnding, therefore, and preparing once more to quit England, I venture to leave in your hands this book, the most mature of my works, and the one into which my highest convictions upon Life and Art have entered that as, through my various efforts in literature and steps in life, you have believed in me, borne with me, and been generous to me, far beyond the common uses of mere relationship or sympathy of mind, so you may kindly accept, in sight of the public, this poor sign of esteem, gratitude, and affection, fromĪnd I who have written much in prose and verseįor others' uses, will write now for mine,–Īs when you paint your portrait for a friend, Reprinted: Chicago: Academy Chicago Printers (Cassandra Editions), 1979. A Celebration of Women Writers Aurora Leigh.
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