Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Through secret windings of the afternoons,

  I threw my hunters off and plunged myself

  Among the deep hills, as a hunted stag

  Will take the waters, shivering with the fear

  And passion of the course. And when, at last

  Escaped,–so many a green slope built on slope

  Betwixt me and the enemy’s house behind,

  I dared to rest, or wander,–like a rest

  Made sweeter for the step upon the grass,–

  And view the ground’s most gentle dimplement,

  (As if God’s finger touched but did not press

  In making England!) such an up and down

  Of verdure,–nothing too much up or down,

  A ripple of land; such little hills, the sky

  Can stoop to tenderly and the wheatfields climb;

  Such nooks of valleys, lined with orchises,

  Fed full of noises by invisible streams;

  And open pastures, where you scarcely tell

  White daisies from white dew,–at intervals

  The mythic oaks and elm-trees standing out

  Self-poised upon their prodigy of shade,–

  I thought my father’s land was worthy too

  Of being my Shakspeare’s.

  Very oft alone,

  Unlicensed; not unfrequently with leave

  To walk the third with Romney and his friend

  The rising painter, Vincent Carrington,

  Whom men judge hardly, as bee-bonneted,

  Because he holds that, paint a body well,

  You paint a soul by implication, like

  The grand first Master. Pleasant walks! for if

  He said . . ‘When I was last in Italy’ . .

  It sounded as an instrument that’s played

  Too far off for the tune–and yet it’s fine

  To listen.

  Often we walked only two,

  If cousin Romney pleased to walk with me.

  We read, or talked, or quarrelled, as it chanced;

  We were not lovers, nor even friends well-matched–

  Say rather, scholars upon different tracks,

  And thinkers disagreed; he, overfull

  Of what is, and I, haply, overbold

  For what might be.

  But then the thrushes sang,

  And shook my pulses and the elms’ new leaves,–

  And then I turned, and held my finger up,

  And bade him mark that, howsoe’er the world

  Went ill, as he related, certainly

  The thrushes still sang in it.–At which word

  His brow would soften,–and he bore with me

  In melancholy patience, not unkind,

  While, breaking into voluble ecstasy,

  I flattered all the beauteous country round,

  As poets use . . .the skies, the clouds, the fields,

  The happy violets hiding from the roads

  The primroses run down to, carrying gold,–

  The tangled hedgerows, where the cows push out

  Impatient horns and tolerant churning mouths

  ‘Twixt dripping ash-boughs,–hedgerows all alive

  With birds and gnats and large white butterflies

  Which look as if the May-flower had sought life

  And palpitated forth upon the wind,–

  Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver mist,

  Farms, granges, doubled up among the hills,

  And cattle grazing in the watered vales,

  And cottage-chimneys smoking from the woods,

  And cottage-gardens smelling everywhere,

  Confused with smell of orchards. ‘See,’ I said,

  ‘And see! is God not with us on the earth?

  And shall we put Him down by aught we do?

  Who says there’s nothing for the poor and vile

  Save poverty and wickedness? behold!’

  And ankle-deep in English grass I leaped,

  And clapped my hands, and called all very fair.

  In the beginning when God called all good,

  Even then, was evil near us, it is writ.

  But we, indeed, who call things good and fair,

  The evil is upon us while we speak;

  Deliver us from evil, let us pray.

  AURORA LEIGH. SECOND BOOK.

  TIMES followed one another. Came a morn

  I stood upon the brink of twenty years,

  And looked before and after, as I stood

  Woman and artist,–either incomplete,

  Both credulous of completion. There I held

  The whole creation in my little cup,

  And smiled with thirsty lips before I drank,

  ‘Good health to you and me, sweet neighbour mine

  And all these peoples.’

  I was glad, that day;

  The June was in me, with its multitudes

  Of nightingales all singing in the dark,

  And rosebuds reddening where the calyx split.

  I felt so young, so strong, so sure of God!

  So glad, I could not choose be very wise!

  And, old at twenty, was inclined to pull

  My childhood backward in a childish jest

  To see the face of’t once more, and farewell!

  In which fantastic mood I bounded forth

  At early morning,–would not wait so long

  As even to snatch my bonnet by the strings,

  But, brushing a green trail across the lawn

  With my gown in the dew, took will and way

  Among the acacias of the shrubberies,

  To fly my fancies in the open air

  And keep my birthday, till my aunt awoke

  To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I murmured on,

  As honeyed bees keep humming to themselves;

  ‘The worthiest poets have remained uncrowned

  Till death has bleached their foreheads to the bone,

  And so with me it must be, unless I prove

  Unworthy of the grand adversity,–

  And certainly I would not fail so much.

  What, therefore, if I crown myself to-day

  In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of it,

  Before my brows be numb as Dante’s own

  To all the tender pricking of such leaves?

  Such leaves? what leaves?’

  I pulled the branches down,

  To choose from.

  ‘Not the bay! I choose no bay;

  The fates deny us if we are overbold:

  Nor myrtle–which means chiefly love; and love

  Is something awful which one dare not touch

  So early o’ mornings. This verbena strains

  The point of passionate fragrance; and hard by,

  This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck

  Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples.

  Ah–there’s my choice,–that ivy on the wall,

  That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow

  But thinking of a wreath. Large leaves, smooth leaves,

  Serrated like my vines, and half as green.

  I like such ivy; bold to leap a height

  ‘Twas strong to climb! as good to grow on graves

  As twist about a thyrsus; pretty too,

  (And that’s not ill) when twisted round a comb.’

  Thus speaking to myself, half singing it,

  Because some thoughts are fashioned like a bell

  To ring with once being touched, I drew a wreath

  Drenched, blinding me with dew, across my brow,

  And fastening it behind so, . . turning faced

  . . My public!–Cousin Romney–with a mouth

  Twice graver than his eyes.

  I stood there fixed–

  My arms up, like the caryatid, sole

  Of some abolished temple, helplessly

  Persistent in a gesture which derides

  A former purpose. Yet my blush was flame,

  As if
from flax, not stone.

  ‘Aurora Leigh,

  The earliest of Aurora’s!’

  Hand stretched out

  I clasped, as shipwrecked men will clasp a hand,

  Indifferent to the sort of palm. The tide

  Had caught me at my pastime, writing down

  My foolish name too near upon the sea

  Which drowned me with a blush as foolish. ‘You,

  My cousin!’

  The smile died out in his eyes

  And dropped upon his lips, a cold dead weight,

  For just a moment . . ‘Here’s a book, I found!

  No name writ on it–poems, by the form;

  Some Greek upon the margin,–lady’s Greek,

  Without the accents. Read it? Not a word.

  I saw at once the thing had witchcraft in’t,

  Whereof the reading calls up dangerous spirits;

  I rather bring it to the witch.’

  ‘My book!

  You found it.’ . .

  ‘In the hollow by the stream,

  That beach leans down into–of which you said,

  The Oread in it has a Naiad’s heart

  And pines for waters.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Rather you,

  My cousin! that I have seen you not too much

  A witch, a poet, scholar, and the rest,

  To be a woman also.’

  With a glance

  The smile rose in his eyes again, and touched

  The ivy on my forehead, light as air.

  I answered gravely, ‘Poets needs must be

  Or men or women–more’s the pity.’

  ‘Ah,

  But men, and still less women, happily,

  Scarce need be poets. Keep to the green wreath,

  Since even dreaming of the stone and bronze

  Brings headaches, pretty cousin, and defiles

  The clean white morning dresses.’

  ‘So you judge!

  Because I love the beautiful, I must

  Love pleasure chiefly, and be overcharged

  For ease and whiteness! Well–you know the world.

  And only miss your cousin; ‘tis not much!–

  But learn this: I would rather take my part

  With God’s Dead, who afford to walk in white

  Yet spread His glory, than keep quiet here,

  And gather up my feet from even a step,

  For fear to soil my gown in so much dust.

  I choose to walk at all risks.–Here, if heads

  That hold a rhythmic thought, must ache perforce,

  For my part, I choose headaches,–and to-day’s

  My birthday.’

  ‘Dear Aurora, choose instead

  To cure such. You have balsams.’

  ‘I perceive!–

  The headache is too noble for my sex.

  You think the heartache would sound decenter,

  Since that’s the woman’s special, proper ache,

  And altogether tolerable, except

  To a woman.’

  Saying which, I loosed my wreath.

  And, swinging it beside me as I walked,

  Half petulant, half playful, as we walked,

  I sent a sidelong look to find his thought,–

  As falcon set on falconer’s finger may,

  With sidelong head, and startled, braving eye,

  Which means, ‘You’ll see–you’ll see! I’ll soon take flight–

  You shall not hinder.’ He, as shaking out

  His hand and answering ‘Fly then,’ did not speak,

  Except by such a gesture. Silently

  We paced, until, just coming into sight

  Of the house-windows, he abruptly caught

  At one end of the swinging wreath, and said

  ‘Aurora!’ There I stopped short, breath and all.

  ‘Aurora, let’s be serious, and throw by

  This game of head and heart. Life means, be sure,

  Both heart and head,–both active, both complete,

  And both in earnest. Men and women make

  The world, as head and heart make human life.

  Work man, work woman, since there’s work to do

  In this beleaguered earth, for head and heart,

  And thought can never do the work of love!

  But work for ends, I mean for uses; not

  For such sleek fringes (do you call them ends?

  Still less God’s glory) as we sew ourselves

  Upon the velvet of those baldaquins

  Held ‘twixt us and the sun. That book of yours,

  I have not read a page of; but I toss

  A rose up–it falls calyx down, you see! . .

  The chances are that, being a woman, young,

  And pure, with such a pair of large, calm eyes, . .

  You write as well . . and ill . . upon the whole,

  As other women. If as well, what then?

  If even a little better, . . still what then?

  We want the Best in art now, or no art.

  The time is done for facile settings up

  Of minnow gods, nymphs here, and tritons there;

  The polytheists have gone out in God,

  That unity of Bests. No best, no God!–

  And so with art, we say. Give art’s divine,

  Direct, indubitable, real as grief,–

  Or leave us to the grief we grow ourselves

  Divine by overcoming with mere hope

  And most prosaic patience. You, you are young

  As Eve with nature’s daybreak on her face;

  But this same world you are come to, dearest coz,

  Has done with keeping birthdays, saves her wreaths

  To hang upon her ruins,–and forgets

  To rhyme the cry with which she still beats back

  Those savage, hungry dogs that hunt her down

  To the empty grave of Christ. The world’s hard pressed;

  The sweat of labour in the early curse

  Has (turning acrid in six thousand years)

  Become the sweat of torture. Who has time,

  An hour’s time . . think! . . to sit upon a bank

  And hear the cymbal tinkle in white hands!

  When Egypt’s slain, I say, let Miriam sing!–

  Before . . where’s Moses?’

  ‘Ah–exactly that

  Where’s Moses?–is a Moses to be found?–

  You’ll sink him vainly in the bulrushes,

  While I in vain touch cymbals. Yet, concede,

  Such sounding brass has done some actual good,

  (The application in a woman’s hand,

  If that were credible, being scarcely spoilt,)

  In colonising beehives.’

  ‘There it is!–

  You play beside a death-bed like a child,

  Yet measure to yourself a prophet’s place

  To teach the living. None of all these things,

  Can women understand. You generalise,

  Oh, nothing!–not even grief! Your quick-breathed hearts,

  So sympathetic to the personal pang,

  Close on each separate knife-stroke, yielding up

  A whole life at each wound; incapable

  Of deepening, widening a large lap of life

  To hold the world-full woe. The human race

  To you means, such a child, or such a man,

  You saw one morning waiting in the cold,

  Beside that gate, perhaps. You gather up

  A few such cases, and, when strong, sometimes

  Will write of factories and of slaves, as if

  Your father were a negro, and your son

  A spinner in the mills. All’s yours and you,–

  All, coloured with your blood, or otherwise

  Just nothing to you. Why, I call you hard

  To general suffering. Here’s the world half blind

  With intellectual light, half brutalised

  With civiliz
ation, having caught the plague

  In silks from Tarsus, shrieking east and west

  Along a thousand railroads, mad with pain

  And sin too! . . does one woman of you all,

  (You who weep easily) grow pale to see

  This tiger shake his cage?–does one of you

  Stand still from dancing, stop from stringing pearls

  And pine and die, because of the great sum

  Of universal anguish?–Show me a tear

  Wet as Cordelia’s, in eyes bright as yours,

  Because the world is mad? You cannot count,

  That you should weep for this account, not you!

  You weep for what you know. A red-haired child

  Sick in a fever, if you touch him once,

  Though but so little as with a finger-tip,

  Will set you weeping! but a million sick . .

  You could as soon weep for the rule of three,

  Or compound fractions. Therefore, this same world

  Uncomprehended by you must remain

  Uninfluenced by you. Women as you are,

  Mere women, personal and passionate,

  You give us doating mothers, and chaste wives.

  Sublime Madonnas, and enduring saints!

  We get no Christ from you,–and verily

  We shall not get a poet, in my mind.’

  ‘With which conclusion you conclude’ . .

  ‘But this–

  That you, Aurora, with the large live brow

  And steady eyelids, cannot condescend

  To play at art, as children play at swords,

  To show a pretty spirit, chiefly admired

  Because true action is impossible.

  You never can be satisfied with praise

  Which men give women when they judge a book

  Not as mere work, but as mere woman’s work,

  Expressing the comparative respect

  Which means the absolute scorn. ‘Oh, excellent!

  ‘What grace! what facile turns! what fluent sweeps!

  ‘What delicate discernment . . almost thought!

  ‘The book does honour to the sex, we hold.

  ‘Among our female authors we make room

  ‘For this fair writer, and congratulate

  ‘The country that produces in these times

  ‘Such women, competent to . . spell.’’

  ‘Stop there!’

  I answered–burning through his thread of talk

  With a quick flame of emotion,–’You have read

  My soul, if not my book, and argue well

  I would not condescend . . we will not say

  To such a kind of praise, (a worthless end

  Is praise of all kinds) but to such a use

  Of holy art and golden life. I am young,

  And peradventure weak–you tell me so–

  Through being a woman. And, for all the rest,