He answered, ‘Be the summer ever green With you, Aurora!—though you sweep your sex With somewhat bitter gusts from where you live Above them,—whirling downward from your heights Your very own pine-cones, in a grand disdain Of the lowland burrs with which you scatter them. So high and cold to others and yourself, A little less to Romney, were unjust, And thus, I would not have you. Let it pass: I feel content, so. You can bear indeed My sudden step beside you: but for me, ’Twould move me sore to hear your softened voice,— Aurora’s voice,—if softened unaware In pity of what I am.’ Ah friend, I thought, As husband of the Lady Waldemar You’re granted very sorely pitiable! And yet Aurora Leigh must guard her voice From softening in the pity of your case, As if from lie or licence. Certainly We’ll soak up all the slush and soil of life With softened voices, ere we come to _you_. At which I interrupted my own thought And spoke out calmly. ‘Let us ponder, friend, Whate’er our state, we must have made it first; And though the thing displease us, ay, perhaps Displease us warrantably, never doubt That other states, thought possible once, and then Rejected by the instinct of our lives,— If then adopted, had displeased us more Than this, in which the choice, the will, the love, Has stamped the honour of a patent act From henceforth. What we choose, may not be good; But, that we choose it, proves it good for _us_ Potentially, fantastically, now Or last year, rather than a thing we saw, And saw no need for choosing. Moths will burn Their wings,—which proves that light is good for moths, Or else they had flown not, where they agonise,’ ‘Ay, light is good,’ he echoed, and there paused. And then abruptly, ... ‘Marian. Marian’s well?’ I bowed my head, but found no word. ’Twas hard To speak of _her_ to Lady Waldemar’s New husband. How much did he know, at last? How much? how little?—— He would take no sign, But straight repeated,—‘Marian. Is she well?’ ‘She’s well,’ I answered. She was there in sight An hour back, but the night had drawn her home; Where still I heard her in an upper room, Her low voice singing to the child in bed, Who restless with the summer-heat and play And slumber snatched at noon, was long sometimes At falling off, and took a score of songs And mother-hushes, ere she saw him sound. ‘She’s well,’ I answered. ‘Here?’ he asked. ‘Yes, here.’ He stopped and sighed. ‘That shall be presently, But now this must be. I have words to say, And would be alone to say them, I with you, And no third troubling.’