Aurora Leigh

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope

To speak my poems in mysterious tune

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

That trickles from successive galaxies

Still drop by drop adown the finger of God

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

That scarce dare breathe they are so beautiful ?--

With spring's delicious trouble in the ground,

Tormented by the quickened blood of roots,

And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves

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

With winters and with autumns, -- and beyond,

With the human heart's large seasons, when it hopes

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

Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh

In a sacrament of souls ? with mother's breasts

Which, round the new-made creatures hanging there,

Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres ? --

With multitudinous life, and finally

With the great escapings of ecstatic souls,

Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,

Their radiant faces upward, burn away

This dark of the body, issuing on a world,

Beyond our mortal ? -- can I speak my verse

Sp plainly in tune to these things and the rest,

That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,

As having the same warrant over them

To hold and move them if they will or no,

Alike imperious as the primal rhythm

Of that theurgic nature ? I must fail,

Who fail at the beginning to hold and move

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

And he born tender, made intelligent,

Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides

Of difficult questions ; yet, obtuse to me,

Of me, incurious ! likes me very well,

And wishes me a paradise of good,

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

But otherwise evades me, puts me off

With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness, --

Too light a book for a grave man's reading ! Go,

Aurora Leigh : be humble.

There it is,

We women are too apt to look to One,

Which proves a certain impotence in art.

We strain our natures at doing something great,

Far less because it 's something great to do,

Than haply that we, so, commend ourselves

As being not small, and more appreciable

To some one friend. We must have mediators

Betwixt our highest conscience and the judge ;

Some sweet saint's blood must quicken in our palms

Or all the life in heaven seems slow and cold :

Good only being perceived as the end of good,

And God alone pleased, -- that's too poor, we think,

And not enough for us by any means.

Ay, Romney, I remember, told me once

We miss the abstract when we comprehend.

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

Yet, so, I will not. -- This vile woman's way

Of trailing garments, shall not trip me up :

I 'll have no traffic with the personal thought

In art's pure temple. Must I work in vain,

Without the approbation of a man ?

It cannot be ; it shall not. Fame itself,

That approbation of the general race,

Presents a poor end, (though the arrow speed,

Shot straight with vigorous finger to the white,)

And the highest fame was never reached except

By what was aimed above it. Art for art,

And good for God Himself, the essential Good !

We 'll keep our aims sublime, our eyes erect,

Although our woman-hands should shake and fail ;

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

Shall I fail ?

The Greeks said grandly in their tragic phrase,

`Let no one be called happy till his death.'

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

Be called unhappy. Measure not the work

Until the day 's out and the labour done,

Then bring your gauges. If the day's work 's scant,

Why, call it scant ; affect no compromise ;

And, in that we have nobly striven at least,

Deal with us nobly, women though we be.

And honour us with truth if not with praise.