Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/186

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AURORA LEIGH.
It pushes toward the intense significanceOf all things, hungry for the Infinite?Art's life,—and where we live, we suffer and toil.'
He seemed to sift me with his painful eyes.'Alas! You take it gravely; you refuseYour dreamland, right of common, and green rest.You break the mythic turf where danced the nymphs,With crooked ploughs of actual life,—let inThe axes to the legendary woods,To pay the head-tax. You are fallen indeedOn evil days, you poets, if yourselvesCan praise that art of yours no otherwise;And, if you cannot, . . better take a tradeAnd be of use! 'twere cheaper for your youth.'
'Of use!' I softly echoed, 'there's the pointWe sweep about for ever in an argument;Like swallows, which the exasperate, dying yearSets spinning in black circles, round and round,Preparing for far flights o'er unknown seas.And we . . where tend we?''Where?' he said, and sighed.'The whole creation, from the hour we are born,Perplexes us with questions. Not a stoneBut cries behind us, every weary step,'Where, where?' I leave stones to reply to stones.Enough for me and for my fleshly heartTo harken the invocations of my kind,When men catch hold upon my shuddering nerves
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