Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/165

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AURORA LEIGH.
We call those, faces? men's and women's . . ay,And children's;—babies, hanging like a ragForgotten on their mother's neck,—poor mouths.Wiped clean of mother's milk by mother's blowBefore they are taught her cursing. Faces . . phew,We'll call them vices festering to despairs,Or sorrows petrifying to vices: notA finger-touch of God left whole on them;All ruined, lost—the countenance worn outAs the garments, the will dissolute as the acts,The passions loose and draggling in the dirtTo trip the foot up at the first free step!—Those, faces! 'twas as if you had stirred up hellTo heave its lowest dreg-fiends uppermostIn fiery swirls of slime,—such strangled fronts,Such obdurate jaws were thrown up constantly,To twit you with your race, corrupt your blood,And grind to devilish colors all your dreamsHenceforth, . . though, haply, you should drop asleepBy clink of silver waters, in a museOn Raffael's mild Madonna of the Bird.
I've waked and slept through many nights and daysSince then,—but still that day will catch my breathLike a nightmare. There are fatal days, indeed,In which the fibrous years have taken rootSo deeply, that they quiver to their topsWhene'er you stir the dust of such a day.
My cousin met me with his eyes and hand,
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