AURORA LEIGH.
Maintain it, as she were not changed at all;
And though that’s worthy, though that’s full of balm
To any conscious spirit of a girl
Who once has loved you as I loved you once,—
Yet still it will not make her . . if she’s dead,
And gone away where none can give or take
In marriage,—able to revive, return
And wed you,—will, it Romney? Here’s the point;
O friend, we’ll see it plainer: you and I
Must never, never, never join hands so.
Nay, let me say it,—for I said it first
To God, and placed it, rounded to an oath,
Far, far above the moon there, at His feet,
As surely as I wept just now at yours,—
We never, never, never join hands so.
And now, be patient with me; do not think
I’m speaking from a false humility.
The truth is, I am grown so proud with grief,
And He has said so often through his nights
And through his mornings, ‘Weep a little still,
‘Thou foolish Marian, because women must,
‘But do not blush at all except for sin,’—
That I, who felt myself unworthy once
Of virtuous Romney and his high-born race,
Have come to learn, . . a woman poor or rich,
Despised or honoured, is a human soul;
And what her soul is,—that, she is herself,
Although she should be spit upon of men,
As is the pavement of the churches here,
Still good enough to pray in. And, being chaste
And though that’s worthy, though that’s full of balm
To any conscious spirit of a girl
Who once has loved you as I loved you once,—
Yet still it will not make her . . if she’s dead,
And gone away where none can give or take
In marriage,—able to revive, return
And wed you,—will, it Romney? Here’s the point;
O friend, we’ll see it plainer: you and I
Must never, never, never join hands so.
Nay, let me say it,—for I said it first
To God, and placed it, rounded to an oath,
Far, far above the moon there, at His feet,
As surely as I wept just now at yours,—
We never, never, never join hands so.
And now, be patient with me; do not think
I’m speaking from a false humility.
The truth is, I am grown so proud with grief,
And He has said so often through his nights
And through his mornings, ‘Weep a little still,
‘Thou foolish Marian, because women must,
‘But do not blush at all except for sin,’—
That I, who felt myself unworthy once
Of virtuous Romney and his high-born race,
Have come to learn, . . a woman poor or rich,
Despised or honoured, is a human soul;
And what her soul is,—that, she is herself,
Although she should be spit upon of men,
As is the pavement of the churches here,
Still good enough to pray in. And, being chaste
