My loose long hair began to burn and creep, Alive to the very ends, about my knees: I swept it backward as the wind sweeps flame, With the passion of my hands. Ah, Romney laughed One day ... (how full the memories come up!) ‘—Your Florence fire-flies live on in your hair,’ He said, ‘it gleams so.’ Well, I wrung them out, My fire-flies; made a knot as hard as life, Of those loose, soft, impracticable curls, And then sat down and thought.... ‘She shall not think Her thought of me,’—and drew my desk and wrote. ‘Dear Lady Waldemar, I could not speak With people round me, nor can sleep to-night And not speak, after the great news I heard Of you and of my cousin. May you be Most happy; and the good he meant the world, Replenish his own life. Say what I say, And let my word be sweeter for your mouth, As you are _you_ ... I only Aurora Leigh.’ That’s quiet, guarded! though she hold it up Against the light, she’ll not see through it more Than lies there to be seen. So much for pride; And now for peace, a little! Let me stop All writing back.... ‘Sweet thanks, my sweetest friend, ‘You’ve made more joyful my great joy itself,’ —No, that’s too simple! she would twist it thus, ‘My joy would still be as sweet as thyme in drawers, However shut up in the dark and dry; But violets, aired and dewed by love like yours, Out-smell all thyme! we keep that in our clothes, But drop the other down our bosoms, till They smell like’ ... ah, I see her writing back Just so. She’ll make a nosegay of her words, And tie it with blue ribbons at the end To suit a poet;—pshaw! And then we’ll have The call to church; the broken, sad, bad dream Dreamed out at last; the marriage-vow complete With the marriage-breakfast; praying in white gloves, Drawn off in haste for drinking pagan toasts In somewhat stronger wine than any sipped By gods, since Bacchus had his way with grapes.