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AURORA LEIGH.
All the rest, he held her handIn speaking, which confused the sense of much;Her heart, against his words, beat out so thickThey might as well be written on the dustWhere some poor bird, escaping from hawk’s beak,Has dropped, and beats its shuddering wings,—the linesAre rubbed so,—yet ’twas something like to this,—‘That they two, standing at the two extremesOf social classes, had received one seal,Been dedicate and drawn beyond themselvesTo mercy and ministration,—he, indeed,Through what he knew, and she, through what she felt,He, by man’s conscience, she, by woman’s heart,Relinquishing their several ’vantage postsOf wealthy case and honourable toil,To work with God at love. And, since God willedThat, putting out his hand to touch this ark,He found a woman’s hand there, he’d acceptThe sign too, hold the tender fingers fast,And say, ‘My fellow-worker, be my wife!’
She told the tale with simple, rustic turns,—Strong leaps of meaning in her sudden eyesThat took the gaps of any imperfect phraseOf the unschooled speaker: I have rather writThe thing I understood so, than the thingI heard so. And I cannot render rightHer quick gesticulation, wild yet soft,Self-startled from the habitual mood she used,Half sad, half languid,—like dumb creatures (now
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