And steel myself, when rightly vexed with you, For telling you a thing to tease you more. Their actions are too modest to make them interesting. Enough for me and for my fleshly heart To harken the invocations of my kind, When men catch hold upon my shuddering nerves And shriek, 'What help? Jeered weakly at me as I passed across The uneven pavement ; while a woman, rouged Upon the angular cheek-bones, kerchief torn. I needed a break from my Gothic teen novels so decided to read this epic poem by one of my favorite poets Elizabeth Barrett Browning. And yet she knitted hose Not ill, and was not dull at needlework ; And all the country people gave her pence For darning stockings past their natural age, And patching petticoats from old to new. And oft the jangling influence jarred the child Like looking at a sunset full of grace Through a pothouse window while the drunken oaths Went on behind her ; but she weeded out Her book-leaves, threw away the leaves that hurt, First tore them small, that none should find a word And made a nosegay of the sweet and good To fold within her breast, and pore upon At broken moments of the noontide glare, When leave was given her to untie her cloak And rest upon the dusty roadside bank From the highway's dust. I could not mean to tell her to her face I 64? As a reader I felt that the approach worked very well particularly in the first half.
Not now, but on some other day or week : — We'll call it perjury ; I give her up. She wants Aurora to speak to Marian and then to Romney and convince them of their foolishness. God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers. Except in fable and figure : forests chant Their anthems to themselves, and leave you dumb. She had lost her feet, Could run no more, yet, somehow, went as fast, — The horizon, red 'twixt steeples in the east.
Instructed her and civilised her more Than even the Sunday-school did afterward. Of course throw monstrous shadows : those who think Awry, will scarce act straightly. And how the strange confession of your love Serves tliis, I have to learn — I cannot see. I am surprised to say that I really liked this. And dropped her eyes on me, and let them melt. Which ever since is loose upon the latch For those who pull the string.
After Adam, work was curse; The natural creature labours, sweats and frets. My critic Stokes objects to abstract thoughts ; ' Call a man, John, a woman, Joan,' says he, ' And do not prate so of humanities : ' Whereat I call my critic, simply Stokes. You wear your blue so chiefly in your eyes. Well, you 're right, I did hot surely hate you yesterday ; And yet I do not love you enough to-day To wed you, cousin Romney. It floats up, it turns over in my mind.
The midnight oil Would stink sometimes ; there came some vulgar needs : I had to live, that therefore I might work. Miss Leigh, I have not, without struggle, come to this. The hoes, of course, are on us. Well, voice and look were now More utterly shut out from me, I felt. My first husband left me young.
A child 's too costly for so mere a wretch ; She filched it somewhere ; and it means, with her, Instead of honour, blessing,. That Romney Leigh had asked me for a wife, And I refused him? My critic Hammond flatters prettily, And wants another volume like the last. Can I write to Mm A half truth? I had lost a friend In Eomney Leigh ; the thing was sure — a friend, Who had looked at me most gently now and then. I apprehended this,-- In England, no one lives by verse that lives; And, apprehending, I resolved by prose To make a space to sphere my living verse. But if an angel spoke In thunder, should we, haply, know much more Than that it thundered? The scorn Is yours, my cousin. She may not do it with such unworthy love He cannot stoop and take it.
To keep your honour, as you count it, pure, — Your scruples just as if I thought them wise Safe and inviolate from gifts of mine. I could not claim The poor right of a mouse in a trap, to squeal, And take so much as pity, from myself. The people on the roads Would stop and ask her how her eyes outgrew Her cheeks, and if she meant to lodge the birds In all that hair ; and then they lifted her. We are wrong always, when we think too much Of what we think or are; albeit our thoughts Be verily bitter as self-sacrifice, We're no less selfish. Instead of any worthy wife at home, A star upon his stage of Eglinton! Aurora is something of a radical here. Sets dreadful odds betwixt the live and dead. They say he 's very busy with good works, — Has parted Leigh Hall into almshouses.
Involve the passive city, strangle it Alive, and draw it off into the void. We run for, till we lose sight of the sun In the dust of the racing chariots! I'm not a quote person, but I found myself underlining passages and connecting with this book. Romney does not believe that she as a woman has the passion or ability to write great Art, and Aurora thinks he is too consumed with lofty ideals to be a good husband. Her parents took her with them when they tramped. There are marquises Would serve seven years to call me wife, I know : And, after seven, I might consider it.