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Rh ‘Thou mask of saintship.’ ‘Could I answer her? The light broke in so. It meant that then, that? I had not thought of that, in all my thoughts, Through all the cold, dumb aching of my brow, Through all the heaving of impatient life Which threw me on death at intervals, through all The upbreak of the fountains of my heart The rains had swelled too large: it could mean that? Did God make mothers out of victims, then, And set such pure amens to hideous deeds? Why not? He overblows an ugly grave With violets which blossom in the spring. And I could be a mother in a month! I hope it was not wicked to be glad. I lifted up my voice and wept, and laughed, To heaven, not her, until I tore my throat. ‘Confess, confess!’ what was there to confess, Except man’s cruelty, except my wrong? Except this anguish, or this ecstasy? This shame, or glory? The light woman there Was small to take it in: an acorn-cup Would take the sea in sooner. ‘‘Good,’ she cried; ‘Unmarried and a mother, and she laughs! ‘These unchaste girls are always impudent. ‘Get out, intriguer! leave my house, and trot: ‘I wonder you should look me in the face, ‘With such a filthy secret.’ ‘Then I rolled