Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/185

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AURORA LEIGH.
That he and I,—despite a year or twoOf younger life on my side, and on his,The heaping of the years' work on the days,—The three-hour speeches from the member's seat,The hot committees, in and out the House,The pamphlets, 'Arguments,' 'Collective Views,'Tossed out as straw before sick houses, justTo show one's sick and so be trod to dirt,And no more use,—through this world's undergroundThe burrowing, groping effort, whence the armAnd heart came bleeding,—sure, that he and IWere, after all, unequally fatigued!That he, in his developed manhood, stoodA little sunburnt by the glare of life;While I . . it seemed no sun had shone on me,So many seasons I had forgot my Springs;My cheeks had pined and perished from their orbs,And all the youth-blood in them had grown whiteAs dew on autumn cyclamens: aloneMy eyes and forehead answered for my face.
He said . . 'Aurora, you are changed—are ill!'
'Not so, my cousin,—only not asleep!'I answered, smiling gently. 'Let it be.You scarcely found the poet of VaucluseAs drowsy as the shepherds. What is art,But life upon the larger scale, the higher,When, graduating up in a spiral lineOf still expanding and ascending gyres,
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