I took him up austerely,—‘You have read My book, but not my heart; for recollect, ’Tis writ in Sanscrit, which you bungle at. I’ve surely failed, I know; if failure means To look back sadly on work gladly done,— To wander on my mountains of Delight, So called, (I can remember a friend’s words As well as you, sir,) weary and in want Of even a sheep-path, thinking bitterly.... Well, well! no matter. I but say so much, To keep you, Romney Leigh, from saying more, And let you feel I am not so high indeed, That I can bear to have you at my foot,— Or safe, that I can help you. That June-day, Too deeply sunk in craterous sunsets now For you or me to dig it up alive; To pluck it out all bleeding with spent flame At the roots, before those moralising stars We have got instead,—that poor lost day, you said Some words as truthful as the thing of mine You care to keep in memory: and I hold If I, that day, and, being the girl I was, Had shown a gentler spirit, less arrogance, It had not hurt me. Ah, you’ll not mistake The point here. I but only think, you see, More justly, that’s more humbly, of myself, Than when I tried a crown on and supposed.... Nay, laugh, sir,—I’ll laugh with you!—pray you, laugh. I’ve had so many birthdays since that day, I’ve learnt to prize mirth’s opportunities, Which come too seldom. Was it you who said I was not changed? the same Aurora? Ah, We could laugh there, too! Why, Ulysses’ dog Knew _him_, and wagged his tail and died: but if I had owned a dog, I too, before my Troy, And, if you brought him here, ... I warrant you He’d look into my face, bark lustily, And live on stoutly, as the creatures will Whose spirits are not troubled by long loves. A dog would never know me, I’m so changed; Much less a friend ... except that you’re misled By the colour of the hair, the trick of the voice, Like that Aurora Leigh’s.’ ‘Sweet trick of voice! I would be a dog for this, to know it at last, And die upon the falls of it. O love, O best Aurora! are you then so sad, You scarcely had been sadder as my wife?’