Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/250

Rh Is seen, but sees not. ’Twas a real face, Perhaps a real Marian. Which being so, I ought to write to Romney, ‘Marian’s here. Be comforted for Marian.’ My pen fell, My hands struck sharp together, as hands do Which hold at nothing. Can I write to him A half truth? can I keep my own soul blind To the other half,. . the worse? What are our souls, If still, to run on straight a sober pace Nor start at every pebble or dead leaf, They must wear blinkers, ignore facts, suppress Six-tenths of the road? Confront the truth, my soul! And oh, as truly as that was Marian’s face, The arms of the same Marian clasped a thing . . Not hid so well beneath the scanty shawl, I cannot name it now for what it was.

A child. Small business has a cast-away Like Marian, with that crown of prosperous wives At which the gentlest she grows arrogant And says, ‘my child.’ Who’ll find an emerald ring On a beggar’s middle finger, and require More testimony to convict a thief? A child’s too costly for so mere a wretch; She filched it somewhere; and it means, with her, Instead of honour, blessing,. . merely shame.