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AURORA LEIGH.
To breathe a long breath, in the dewy night,And cool your angry forehead. She, at least,Was not built up, as walls are, brick by brick;Each fancy squared, each feeling ranged by line,The very heat of burning youth appliedTo indurate forms and systems! excellent bricks,A well-built wall,—which stops you on the road,And, into which, you cannot see an inchAlthough you beat your head against it—pshaw!
'Adieu,' I said, 'for this time, cousins both:And, cousin Romney, pardon me the word,Be happy!—oh, in some esoteric senseOf course!—I mean no harm in wishing well.Adieu, my Marian:—may she come to me,Dear Romney, and be married from my house?It is not part of your philosophyTo keep your bird upon the blackthorn?''Ay,'He answered, 'but it is:—I take my wifeDirectly from the people,—and she comes,As Austria's daughter to imperial France,Betwixt her eagles, blinking not her race,From Margaret's Court at garret-height, to meetAnd wed me at St. James's, nor put offHer gown of serge for that. The things we do,We do: we'll wear no mask, as if we blushed.'
'Dear Romney, you're the poet,' I replied,—But felt my smile too mournful for my word,
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