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AURORA LEIGH.
For all those hands!—we’ve used out many nights,And worn the yellow daylight into shredsWhich flapped and shivered down our aching eyesTill night appeared more tolerable, justThat pretty ladies might look beautiful,Who said at last . . ‘You’re lazy in that house!‘You’re slow in sending home the work,—I count‘I’ve waited near an hour for’t.’ Pardon me—I do not blame them, madam, nor misprize;They are fair and gracious; ay, but not like you,Since none but you has Mister Leigh’s own bloodBoth noble and gentle,—and without it . . well,They are fair, I said; so fair, it scarce seems strangeThat, flashing out in any looking-glassThe wonder of their glorious brows and breasts,They are charmed so, they forget to look behindAnd mark how pale we’ve grown, we pitifulRemainders of the world. And so, perhaps,If Mister Leigh had chosen a wife from these,She might . . although he’s better than her best,And dearly she would know it . . steal a thoughtWhich should be all his, an eye-glance from his face,To plunge into the mirror opposite,In search of her own beauty’s pearl: while I. .Ah, dearest lady, serge will outweigh silkFor winter-wear, when bodies feel a-cold,And I’ll be a true wife to your cousin Leigh.’
Before I answered, he was there himself.I think he had been standing in the room,
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