Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/359

But, no more, work as Adam . . nor as Leigh
Erewhile, as if the only man on earth,
Responsible for all the thistles blown
And tigers couchant,—struggling in amaze
Against disease and winter,—snarling on
For ever, that the world’s not paradise.
Oh cousin, let us be content, in work,
To do the thing we can, and not presume
To fret because it’s little. ’Twill employ
Seven men, they say, to make a perfect pin!
Who makes the head, content to miss the point,—
Who makes the point, agreed to leave the join:
And if a man should cry, ‘I want a pin,
‘And I must make it straightway, head and point,’—
His wisdom is not worth the pin he wants.
Seven men to a pin,—and not a man too much!
Seven generations, haply, to this world,
To right it visibly, a finger’s breadth,
And mend its rents a little. Oh, to storm
And say,—’This world here is intolerable;
‘I will not eat this corn, nor drink this wine,
‘Nor love this woman, flinging her my soul
‘Without a bond for’t, as a lover should,
‘Nor use the generous leave of happiness
‘As not too good for using generously’—
(Since virtue kindles at the touch of joy,
Like a man’s cheek laid on a woman’s hand;
And God, who knows it, looks for quick returns
From joys)!—to stand and claim to have a life
Beyond the bounds of the individual man,