Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/268

Rh I’m not less dead for that: I’m nothing more But just a mother. Only for the child, I’m warm, and cold, and hungry, and afraid, And smell the flowers a little, and see the sun, And speak still, and am silent,—just for him! I pray you therefore to mistake me not And treat me haply, as I were alive; For though you ran a pin into my soul, I think it would not hurt nor trouble me. Here’s proof, dear lady,—in the market-place But now, you promised me to say a word About. . a friend, who once, long years ago, Took God’s place toward me, when He draws and loves And does not thunder,. . whom at last I left, As all of us leave God. You thought perhaps I seemed to care for hearing of that friend? Now, judge me! we have sate here half an hour And talked together of the child and me, And I not asked as much as ‘What’s the thing You had to tell me of the friend. . the friend?’ He’s sad, I think you said,—he’s sick perhaps? It’s nought to Marian if he’s sad or sick. Another would have crawled beside your foot And prayed your words out. Why, a beast, a dog, A starved cat, if he had fed it once with milk, Would show less hardness. But I’m dead, you see, And that explains it.’ Poor, poor thing, she spoke And shook her head, as white and calm as frost On days too cold for raining any more,