Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/148

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AURORA LEIGH.
139
The dead had ended gossip in, and stoodIn that poor room so cold and orderly,The door-key in her hand, prepared to goAs they had, howbeit not their way. He spoke.
‘Dear Marian, of one clay God made us all,And though men push and poke and paddle in’t(As children play at fashioning dirt-pies)And call their fancies by the name of facts,Assuming difference, lordship, privilege,When all’s plain dirt,——they come back to it at lastThe first grave-digger proves it with a spade,And pats all even. Need we wait for this,You, Marian, and I, Romney?’She at that,Looked blindly in his face, as when one looksThrough drying autumn-rains to find the sky.He went on speaking.‘Marian, I being bornWhat men call noble, and you, issued fromThe noble people,—though the tyrannous swordWhich pierced Christ’s heart, has cleft the world in twain’Twixt class and class, opposing rich to poor,—Shall we keep parted? Not so. Let us leanAnd strain together rather, each to each,Compress the red lips of this gaping wound,As far as two souls can,—ay, lean and league,I, from my superabundance,—from your want,You,—joining in a protest ’gainst the wrongOn both sides!’—
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