From possible pulses ; brown hair pricked with grey

A sort of cage-bird life, born in a cage,

Dear heaven, how silly are the things that live

And the highest fame was never reached except

A quiet life, which was not life at all,

Thread back the passage of delirium,

Of perished summers, like a rose in a book,

`Let no one be called happy till his death.

To some one friend. We must have mediators

We women are too apt to look to One,

There, with some strange spasm

And fears, joys, grieves, and loves ? -- with all that strain

Of knitting stockings, stitching petticoats,

Less blindly. In my ears, my fathers word

Because we are of one flesh after all

A weary, wormy darkness, spurrd i the flank

It cannot be ; it shall not. Fame itself,

Searched through my face, -- ay, stabbed it through and through,

Tormented by the quickened blood of roots,

Past fading also.

Which, round the new-made creatures hanging there,

Accounting that to leap from perch to perch

Among his mountains : I was just thirteen,

With flame, that it should eat and end itself

Of my fathers silence, to shriek back a word,

By frigid use of life, (she was not old

From Gods celestial crystals ; all things blurred

To hold and move them if they will or no,

The Greeks said grandly in their tragic phrase,

She stood upon the steps to welcome me,

To which I add, -- Let no one till his death

Looked cold upon me. Could I find a home

And she was there to meet me. Very kind.

Alike imperious as the primal rhythm

Of difference in the quality) -- and still

Howbeit, upon a slenderer undergrowth

A wild bird scarcely fledged, was brought https://read.99csw.comto her cage,

Although my fathers elder by a year)

With an intense, strong, struggling heart beside

The poor-club exercised her Christian gifts

Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh

With heart to strike a radiant colour up

We miss it most when we aspire, -- and fail.

And dared to do it they were so far off

As having the same warrant over them

Against chance-vulgarisms, and, in the abyss

A wicked murderer in my innocent face,

The apothecary, looked on once a year

Who fail at the beginning to hold and move

A stranger with authority, not right,

As long as I deserved it. Very kind.

Which proves a certain impotence in art.

Cut off from the green reconciling earth,

Or active outline on the indifferent air.

With the great escapings of ecstatic souls,

Like one in anger drawing back her skirts

Of me, incurious ! likes me very well,

Bring the clean water, give out the fresh seed.

Good only being perceived as the end of good,

Like some tormented scorpion. Then at last

With springs delicious trouble in the ground,

And missed it rather, -- told me not to shrink,

I do remember clearly, how there came

Through brows and cheeks and chin, as if to find

Betwixt our highest conscience and the judge ;

Calm, in black garb. I clung about her neck, --

A close mild mouth, a little soured about

Good looks, good means, and good digestion, -- ay,

And he born tender, made intelligent,

As if for taming accidental thoughts

We ll keep our aims sublime, our eyes erect,

And glare unnatural ; the very sky

That trickles from successive galaxies

In smiling ; cheeks, in which was yet a rose九-九-藏-書

Preserved her intellectual. She had lived

A nose drawn sharply yet in delicate lines ;

Stared at the wharf-edge where she stood and moaned,

Missing the turn still, baffled by the door ;

Or peradventure niggardly half-truths ;

Aurora Leigh : be humble.

Among those mean red houses through the fog ?

This dark of the body, issuing on a world,

`Love, love, my child. She, black there with my grief,

Deal with us nobly, women though we be.

I clung to her. A moment, she seemed moved,

Then bring your gauges. If the days work s scant,

Until the day s out and the labour done,

We strain our natures at doing something great,

With man and nature ? -- with the lava-lymph

Presents a poor end, (though the arrow speed,

She had lived, well say,

There it is,

Drawn backward from the shuddering steamer-deck,

I, alas,

Might feel my love -- she was his sister once,

The book-club, guarded from your modern trick

In token of the harvest-time of flowers ?--

Shall I fail ?

Of shaking dangerous questions from the crease,

One man, -- and he my cousin, and he my friend,

I ll have no traffic with the personal thought

The universe turned stranger, for a child.

And if we fail .. But must we ? --

Than haply that we, so, commend ourselves

To which my father went. All new and strange

Still drop by drop adown the finger of God

From alien lips which had no kiss for mine

Smooth endless days, notched here and there with knives ;

Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,

With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness, --

Her somewhat narrow forehead braided tight

Beyond our mortal ? -- can I speak my verse

Without the approbation of a man ?

That scarce dare read.99csw.combreathe they are so beautiful ?--

Ten nights and days, without the common face

In a sacrament of souls ? with mothers breasts

That approbation of the general race,

(Dropping its bell-net down upon the sea

Kept more for ruth than pleasure, -- if past bloom,

In still new worlds ? -- with summer-days in this ?

By what was aimed above it. Art for art,

And sweeping up the ship with my despair

Bedraggled with the desolating salt,

Of any day or night ; the moon and sun

I wept aloud, then laughed, then wept, then wept,

And, in that we have nobly striven at least,

Some sweet saints blood must quicken in our palms

My poor Assunta, where she stood and moaned !

So, nine full years, our days were hid with God

And makes it better sometimes than itself.

To give me welcome. She stood straight and calm,

Then, land ! -- then, England ! oh, the frosty cliffs

Why, call it scant ; affect no compromise ;

With multitudinous life, and finally

`Love, my child, love, love ! -- (then he had done with grief)

Which supplicants catch at. Then the bitter sea

And some one near me said the child was mad

Young babes, who catch at every shred of wool

Ay, Romney, I remember, told me once

Still growing like the plants from unseen roots

Although our woman-hands should shake and fail ;

I recollect as, after fevers, men

There, ended childhood. What succeeded next

Hummed ignorantly, as the sea in shells,

Shot straight with vigorous finger to the white,)

With winters and with autumns, -- and beyond,

From old Assuntas neck ; how, with a shriek,

And with two grey-steel naked-bladed eyes

The ground seemed cut up from the fellowship

Sp plainly in tune to these thingｈttｐｓ://rｅａｄ.99cｓw.ｃoｍs and the rest,

`Love, my child. Ere I answered he was gone,

In arts pure temple. Must I work in vain,

Imperiously, and held me at arms length,

To speak my poems in mysterious tune

Of difficult questions ; yet, obtuse to me,

But otherwise evades me, puts me off

Of verdure, field from field, as man from man ;

Through much sea-sickness. The train swept us on.

Was act and joy enough for any bird.

And need one flannel (with a proper sense

But then my mothers smile breaks up the whole,

And good for God Himself, the essential Good !

To starve into a blind ferocity

Too light a book for a grave mans reading ! Go,

And wishes me a paradise of good,

Ten nights and days we voyaged on the deep ;

Kissed me with cold lips, suffered me to cling,

And honour us with truth if not with praise.

That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,

The skies themselves looked low and positive,

Of trailing garments, shall not trip me up :

I am like,

They tell me, my dear father. Broader brows

(I thought not) who commanded, caught me up

In thickets, and eat berries !

Inexorably pushed between us both,

Between the vicar and the country squires,

`She loved my father, and would love me too

As if she had told me not to lie or swear, --

AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope

To prove their soundness of humility.

She let me go, -- while I, with ears too full

Of pain and passion, she wrung loose my hands

To draw the new light closer, catch and cling

Or all the life in heaven seems slow and cold :

The lord-lieutenant looking down sometimes

(But that, she had not lived enough to know)

[Book 5]

As almost you could touch them with a hand,

The ends, through speaking unhttps://read.99csw.comrequited loves

And dull and vague. Did Shakspeare and his mates

And when I heard my fathers language first

Be called unhappy. Measure not the work

Of delicate features, -- paler, near as grave ;

As being not small, and more appreciable

From the empyrean to assure their souls

Until it seemed no more that holy heaven

We miss the abstract when we comprehend.

Eyes of no colour, -- once they might have smiled,

And God alone pleased, -- thats too poor, we think,

Yet, so, I will not. -- This vile womans way

With the human hearts large seasons, when it hopes

I think I see my fathers sister stand

Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres ? --

The room she sate in.

Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides

A harmless life, she called a virtuous life,

And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves

As if no human heart should scape alive,)

And drew me feebly through the hall into

And none was left to love in all the world.

Far less because it s something great to do,

She struggled for her ordinary calm

Threw us out as a pasture to the stars.

In all a childs astonishment at grief

Their radiant faces upward, burn away

The white walls, the blue hills, my Italy,

A stone-dead father. Life, struck sharp on death,

But never, never have forgot themselves

To full life and life s needs and agonies,

In tongue-tied Springs, -- and suddenly awoke

Upon the hall-step of her country-house

Absorb the light here ? -- not a hill or stone

And not enough for us by any means.

Of that theurgic nature ? I must fail,

If not here, there perhaps. Then, drawing breath,

Makes awful lightning. His last word was, `Love --

Was this my fathers England ? the great isle ?

[Book 1]