Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/362

Rh With Branches. Ass or angel, ’tis the same: A woman cannot do the thing she ought, Which means whatever perfect thing she can, In life, in art, in science, but she fears To let the perfect action take her part And rest there: she must prove what she can do Before she does it,—prate of woman’s rights, Of woman’s mission, woman’s function, till The men (who are prating, too, on their side) cry, ‘A woman’s function plainly is. . to talk. Poor souls, they are very reasonably vexed! They cannot hear each other speak.’ ‘And you, An artist, judge so?’ ‘I, an artist,—yes, Because, precisely, I’m an artist, sir, And woman,—if another sate in sight, I’d whisper,—soft, my sister! not a word! By speaking we prove only we can speak: Which he, the man here, never doubted. What He doubts, is whether we can do the thing With decent grace, we’ve not yet done at all: Now, do it; bring your statue,—you have room! He’ll see it even by the starlight here; And if ’tis e’er so little like the god Who looks out from the marble silently Along the track of his own shining dart Through the dusk of ages,—there’s no need to speak; The universe shall henceforth speak for you, And witness, ‘She who did this thing, was born