EVEN thus. I pause to write it out at length, The letter of the Lady Waldemar. After years of love, Or what is called so,—when a woman frets And fools upon one string of a man's name, And fingers it for ever till it breaks,— He may perhaps do for her such thing, And she accept it without detriment Although she should not love him any more And I, who do not love him, nor love you, Nor you, Aurora,—choose you shall repent Your most ungracious letter, and confess, Constrained by his convictions, he's convinced You've wronged me foully.
Are you made so ill, You woman—to impute such ill to me? We both had mothers,—lay in their bosom once. Why, after all, I thank you, Aurora Leigh, For proving to myself that there are things I would not do,. Though something I have somewhat overdone,— For instance, when I went to see the gods One morning, on Olympus, with a step That shook the thunder in a certain cloud, Committing myself vilely. Could I think, The Muse I pulled my heart out from my breast To soften, had herself a sort of heart, And loved my mortal?
He, at least, loved her; I heard him say so; 'twas my recompence, When, watching at his bedside fourteen days, He broke out ever like a flame at whiles Between the heats of fever. Good morning, Mister Leigh; 'You'll find another reader the next time. He came with health recovered, strong though pale Lord Howe and he, a courteous pair of friends, To say what men dare say to women, when Their debtors.
But I stopped them with a word; And proved I had never trodden such a road, To carry so much dirt upon my shoe. Then, putting into it something of disdain, I asked forsooth his pardon, and my own, For having done no better than to love, And that, not wisely,—though 'twas long ago, And though 'twas altered perfectly since then. I told him, as I tell you now, Miss Leigh, And proved I took some trouble for his sake Because I know he did not love the girl To spoil my hands with working in the stream Of that poor bubbling nature,—till she went, Consigned to one I trusted, my own maid, Who once had lived full five months in my house, Dressed hair superbly with lavish purse To carry to Australia where she had left A husband, said she.
If the creature lied, The mission failed, we all do fail and lie More or less—and I'm sorry—which is all Expected from us when we fail the most, And go to church to own it. What I meant, Was just the best for him, and me, and her. Best even for Marian! Yet my creature said She saw her stop to speak in Oxford Street To one.
