Life’s only serious business. Who’s my wife That shall be in a month? you ask? nor guess? Remember what a pair of topaz eyes You once detected, turned against the wall, That morning, in my London painting-room; The face half-sketched, and slurred; the eyes alone! But you ... you caught them up with yours, and said ‘Kate Ward’s eyes, surely.’—Now, I own the truth, I had thrown them there to keep them safe from Jove; They would so naughtily find out their way To both the heads of both my Danaës, Where just it made me mad to look at them. Such eyes! I could not paint or think of eyes But those,—and so I flung them into paint And turned them to the wall’s care. Ay, but now I’ve let them out, my Kate’s! I’ve painted her, (I’ll change my style, and leave mythologies) The whole sweet face; it looks upon my soul Like a face on water, to beget itself. A half-length portrait, in a hanging cloak Like one you wore once; ’tis a little frayed; I pressed, too, for the nude harmonious arm— But she ... she’d have her way, and have her cloak; She said she could be like you only so, And would not miss the fortune. Ah, my friend, You’ll write and say she shall not miss your love Through meeting mine? in faith, she would not change: She has your books by heart, more than my words, And quotes you up against me till I’m pushed Where, three months since, her eyes were! nay, in fact, Nought satisfied her but to make me paint Your last book folded in her dimpled hands, Instead of my brown palette, as I wished, (And, grant me, the presentment had been newer) She’d grant me nothing: I’ve compounded for The naming of the wedding-day next month, And gladly too. ’Tis pretty, to remark How women can love women of your sort, And tie their hearts with love-knots to your feet, Grow insolent about you against men, And put us down by putting up the lip, As if a man,—there _are_ such, let us own, Who write not ill,—remains a man, poor wretch, While you——! Write far worse than Aurora Leigh, And there’ll be women who believe of you (Besides my Kate) that if you walked on sand You would not leave a foot-print. ‘Are you put To wonder by my marriage, like poor Leigh? ‘Kate Ward!’ he said. ‘Kate Ward!’ he said anew. ‘I thought ...’ he said, and stopped,—‘I did not think....’ And then he dropped to silence. ‘Ah, he’s changed. I had not seen him, you’re aware, for long, But went of course. I have not touched on this Through all this letter,—conscious of your heart, And writing lightlier for the heavy fact, As clocks are voluble with lead. ‘How weak, To say I’m sorry. Dear Leigh, dearest Leigh! In those old days of Shropshire,—pardon me,—