Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/334

Rh And, past the quays, Maria Novella’s Place, In which the mystic obelisks stand up Triangular, pyramidal, each based On a single trine of brazen tortoises, To guard that fair church, Buonarroti’s Bride, That stares out from her large blind dial-eyes, Her quadrant and armillary dials, black With rhythms of many suns and moons, in vain Enquiry for so rich a soul as his,— Methinks I have plunged, I see it all so clear. . . And, oh my heart. . .the sea-king!

In my ears The sound of waters. There he stood, my king!

I felt him, rather than beheld him. Up I rose, as if he were my king indeed, And then sate down, in trouble at myself, And struggling for my woman’s empery. ’Tis pitiful; but women are so made: We’ll die for you, perhaps,—’tis probable: But we’ll not spare you an inch of our full height: We’ll have our whole just stature,—five feet four, Though laid out in our coffins: pitiful! —‘You, Romney!——Lady Waldemar is here?’

He answered in a voice which was not his, ‘I have her letter; you shall read it soon: But first, I must be heard a little, I, Who have waited long and travelled far for that,