Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/339

Rh I still could bear it. Yet I’m sorry, too, To lose this famous letter, which Sir Blaise Has twisted to a lighter absently To fire some holy taper with: Lord Howe Writes letters good for all things but to lose; And many a flower of London gossipry Has dropt wherever such a stem broke off,— Of course I know that, lonely among my vines, Where nothing’s talked of, save the blight again, And no more Chianti! Still the letter’s use As preparation. . . . . Did I start indeed? Last night I started at a cochchafer, And shook a half-hour after. Have you learnt No more of women, ’spite of privilege, Than still to take account too seriously Of such weak flutterings? Why, we like it, sir,— We get our powers and our effects that way. The trees stand stiff and still at time of frost, If no wind tears them; but, let summer come, When trees are happy,—and a breath avails To set them trembling through a million leaves In luxury of emotion. Something less It takes to move a woman: let her start And shake at pleasure,—nor conclude at yours, The winter’s bitter,—but the summer’s green.’

He answered, ‘Be the summer ever green With you, Aurora!—though you sweep your sex With somewhat bitter gusts from where you live Above them,—whirling downward from your heights