Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/264

Rh As if you had walked, we’ll say, no otherwhere Than up and down the new Jerusalem, And held your trailing lutestring up yourself From brushing the twelve stones, for fear of some Small speck as little as a needle prick, White stitched on white,—the child would keep to me, Would choose his poor lost Marian, like me best, And, though you stretched your arms, cry back and cling, As we do, when God says it’s time to die And bids us go up higher. Leave us then; We two are happy. Does he push me off? He’s satisfied with me, as I with him.’

‘So soft to one, so hard to others! Nay.’ I cried, more angry that she melted me, ‘We make henceforth a cushion of our faults To sit and practise easy virtues on? I thought a child was given to sanctify A woman,—set her in the sight of all The clear-eyed heavens, a chosen minister To do their business and lead spirits up The difficult blue heights. A woman lives, Not bettered, quickened toward the truth and good Through being a mother? . . . then she’s none although She damps her baby’s cheeks by kissing them, As we kill roses.’ ‘Kill! O Christ,’ she said, And turned her wild sad face from side to side With most despairing wonder in it—‘What, What have you in your souls against me then,