Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/11

2 In the child’s riot.Still I sit and feel My father’s slow hand, when she had left us both, Stroke out my childish curls across his knee; And hear Assunta’s daily jest (she knew He liked it better than a better jest) Inquire how many golden scudi went To make such ringlets.O my father’s hand, Stroke the poor hair down, stroke it heavily,— Draw, press the child’s head closer to thy knee! I’m still too young, too young to sit alone.

I write.My mother was a Florentine, Whose rare blue eyes were shut from seeing me When scarcely I was four years old; my life, A poor spark snatched up from a failing lamp Which went out therefore. She was weak and frail; She could not bear the joy of giving life— The mother’s rapture slew her.If her kiss Had left a longer weight upon my lips, It might have steadied the uneasy breath, And reconciled and fraternised my soul With the new order.As it was, indeed, I felt a mother-want about the world, And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb Left out at night, in shutting up the fold,— As restless as a nest-deserted bird Grown chill through something being away, though what It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born To make my father sadder, and myself Not overjoyous, truly.Women know