Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/133

124 Or half a play of Shakespeare’s, torn across: (She had to guess the bottom of a page By just the top sometimes,—as difficult, As, sitting on the moon, to guess the earth!) Or else a sheaf of leaves (for that small Ruth’s Small gleanings) torn out from the heart of books, From Churchyard Elegies and Edens Lost, From Burns, and Bunyan, Selkirk, and Tom Jones. ’Twas somewhat hard to keep the things distinct, 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. Or oft, the journey done, Some city friend would lead her by the hand To hear a lecture at an institute: And thus she had grown, this Marian Erle of ours, To no book-learning,—she was ignorant Of authors,—not in earshot of the things Out-spoken o’er the heads of common men, By men who are uncommon,—but within The cadenced hum of such, and capable Of catching from the fringes of the wind