Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/190

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FIFTH BOOK.

Aurora Leigh, be humble.Shall I hopeTo speak my poems in mysterious tuneWith man and nature,—with the lava-lymphThat trickles from successive galaxiesStill drop by drop adown the finger of God,In still new worlds?—with summer-days in this,That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?—With spring's delicious trouble in the groundTormented by the quickened blood of roots,And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheavesIn token of the harvest-time of flowers?—With winters and with autumns,—and beyond,With the human heart's large seasons,—when it hopesAnd fears, joys, grieves, and loves?—with all that strainOf sexual passion, which devours the fleshIn a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?—With multitudinous life, and finallyWith the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,
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