Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/184

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AURORA LEIGH.
When some chromatic sequence of fine thoughtIn learned modulation phrased itselfTo an unconjectured harmony of truth.And yet I've been more moved, more raised, I say,By a simple word . . a broken easy thing,A three-years infant might say after you,—A look, a sigh, a touch upon the palm,Which meant less than 'I love you' . . than by allThe full-voiced rhetoric of those master-mouths.
'Ah, dear Aurora,' he began at last,His pale lips fumbling for a sort of smile,'Your printer's devils have not spoilt your heart:That's well. And who knows but, long years ago,When you and I talked, you were somewhat rightIn being so peevish with me? You, at least,Have ruined no one through your dreams! Instead,You've helped the facile youth to live youth's dayWith innocent distraction, still perhapsSuggestive of things better than your rhymes.The little shepherd-maiden, eight years old,I've seen upon the mountains of Vaucluse,Asleep i' the sun her head upon her knees,The flocks all scattered,—is more laudableThan any sheep-dog trained imperfectly,Who bites the kids through too much zeal.''I lookAs if I had slept, then?'He was touched at onceBy something in my face. Indeed 'twas sure
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