Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/328

Rh As when ’twas almost good and had the right, (Her Gian alive, and she herself eighteen). And yet, now even, if Madonna willed, She’d win a tern in Thursday’s lottery, And better all things. Did she dream for nought, That, boiling cabbage for the fast day’s soup, It smelt like blessed entrails? such a dream For nought? would sweetest Mary cheat her so, And lose that certain candle, straight and white As any fair grand-duchess in her teens, Which otherwise should flare here in a week? Benigna sis, thou beauteous Queen of heaven!

I sate there musing and imagining Such utterance from such faces: poor blind souls That writhed toward heaven along the devil’s trail,— Who knows, I thought, but He may stretch his hand And pick them up? ’tis written in the Book, He heareth the young ravens when they cry; And yet they cry for carrion.—O my God,— And we, who make excuses for the rest, We do it in our measure. Then I knelt, And dropped my head upon the pavement too, And prayed, since I was foolish in desire Like other creatures, craving offal-food, That He would stop his ears to what I said, And only listen to the run and beat Of this poor, passionate, helpless blood— And then I lay and spoke not. But He heard in heaven.