‘More ill,’ he answered, ‘had been scarcely ill. I hoped this feeble fumbling at life’s knot Might end concisely,—but I failed to die, As formerly I failed to live,—and thus Grew willing, having tried all other ways, To try just God’s. Humility’s so good, When pride’s impossible. Mark us, how we make Our virtues, cousin, from our worn-out sins, Which smack of them from henceforth. Is it right, For instance, to wed here, while you love there? And yet because a man sins once, the sin Cleaves to him, in necessity to sin; That if he sin not _so_, to damn himself, He sins _so_, to damn others with himself: And thus, to wed here, loving there, becomes A duty. Virtue buds a dubious leaf Round mortal brows; your ivy’s better, dear. —Yet she, ’tis certain, is my very wife; The very lamb left mangled by the wolves Through my own bad shepherding: and could I choose But take her on my shoulder past this stretch Of rough, uneasy wilderness, poor lamb, Poor child, poor child?—Aurora, my belov’d, I will not vex you any more to-night; But, having spoken what I came to say, The rest shall please you. What she can, in me,— Protection, tender liking, freedom, ease, She shall have surely, liberally, for her And hers, Aurora. Small amends they’ll make For hideous evils (which she had not known Except by me) and for this imminent loss, This forfeit presence of a gracious friend, Which also she must forfeit for my sake, Since, ... drop your hand in mine a moment, sweet, We’re parting!—— Ah, my snowdrop, what a touch, As if the wind had swept it off! you grudge Your gelid sweetness on my palm but so, A moment? angry, that I could not bear _You_ ... speaking, breathing, living, side by side With some one called my wife ... and live, myself? Nay, be not cruel—you must understand! Your lightest footfall on a floor of mine Would shake the house, my lintel being uncrossed ’Gainst angels: henceforth it is night with me, And so, henceforth, I put the shutters up; Auroras must not come to spoil my dark.’ He smiled so feebly, with an empty hand Stretched sideway from me,—as indeed he looked To any one but me to give him help,— And, while the moon came suddenly out full, The double-rose of our Italian moons, Sufficient, plainly, for the heaven and earth, (The stars, struck dumb and washed away in dews Of golden glory, and the mountains steeped In divine languor) he, the man, appeared So pale and patient, like the marble man A sculptor puts his personal sadness in To join his grandeur of ideal thought,— As if his mallet struck me from my height Of passionate indignation, I who had risen Pale,—doubting, paused, ... Was Romney mad indeed? Had all this wrong of heart made sick the brain?