‘Speak then,’ I returned, ‘She will not vex you.’ At which, suddenly He turned his face upon me with its smile, As if to crush me. ‘I have read your book, Aurora.’ ‘You have read it,’ I replied, ‘And I have writ it,—we have done with it. And now the rest?’ ‘The rest is like the first,’ He answered,—‘for the book is in my heart, Lives in me, wakes in me, and dreams in me: My daily bread tastes of it,—and my wine Which has no smack of it, I pour it out; It seems unnatural drinking.’ Bitterly I took the word up; ‘Never waste your wine. The book lived in me ere it lived in you; I know it closer than another does, And that it’s foolish, feeble, and afraid, And all unworthy so much compliment. Beseech you, keep your wine,—and, when you drink, Still wish some happier fortune to your friend, Than even to have written a far better book.’ He answered gently, ‘That is consequent: The poet looks beyond the book he has made, Or else he had not made it. If a man Could make a man, he’d henceforth be a god In feeling what a little thing is man: It is not my case. And this special book, I did not make it, to make light of it: It stands above my knowledge, draws me up; ’Tis high to me. It may be that the book Is not so high, but I so low, instead; Still high to me. I mean no compliment: I will not say there are not, young or old, Male writers, ay, or female,—let it pass, Who’ll write us richer and completer books. A man may love a woman perfectly, And yet by no means ignorantly maintain A thousand women have not larger eyes: Enough that she alone has looked at him With eyes that, large or small, have won his soul. And so, this book, Aurora,—so, your book.’ ‘Alas,’ I answered, ‘is it so, indeed?’ And then was silent. ‘Is it so, indeed,’ He echoed, ‘that _alas_ is all your word?’ I said,—‘I’m thinking of a far-off June, When you and I, upon my birthday once, Discoursed of life and art, with both untried. I’m thinking, Romney, how ’twas morning then, And now ’tis night.’ ‘And now,’ he said, ‘’tis night.’ ‘I’m thinking,’ I resumed, ‘’tis somewhat sad That if I had known, that morning in the dew, My cousin Romney would have said such words On such a night, at close of many years, In speaking of a future book of mine, It would have pleased me better as a hope, Than as an actual grace it can at all. That’s sad, I’m thinking.’ ‘Ay,’ he said, ‘’tis night.’ ‘And there,’ I added lightly, ‘are the stars! And here, we’ll talk of stars, and not of books.’