And smooth beneath his steps, I should not fear To make him, thus, a less uneasy time Than many a happier woman. Very proud You see me. Pardon, that I set a trap To hear a confirmation in your voice ... Both yours and yours. It is so good to know ’Twas really God who said the same before: For thus it is in heaven, that first God speaks, And then his angels. Oh, it does me good, It wipes me clean and sweet from devil’s dirt, That Romney Leigh should think me worthy still Of being his true and honourable wife! Henceforth I need not say, on leaving earth, I had no glory in it. For the rest, The reason’s ready (master, angel, friend, Be patient with me) wherefore you and I Can never, never, never join hands so. I know you’ll not be angry like a man (For _you_ are none) when I shall tell the truth,— Which is, I do not love you, Romney Leigh, I do not love you. Ah well! catch my hands, Miss Leigh, and burn into my eyes with yours,— I swear I do not love him. Did I once? ’Tis said that women have been bruised to death, And yet, if once they loved, that love of theirs Could never be drained out with all their blood: I’ve heard such things and pondered. Did I indeed Love once? or did I only worship? Yes, Perhaps, O friend, I set you up so high Above all actual good or hope of good, Or fear of evil, all that could be mine, I haply set you above love itself, And out of reach of these poor woman’s arms, Angelic Romney. What was in my thought? To be your slave, your help, your toy, your tool. To be your love ... I never thought of that. To give you love ... still less. I gave you love? I think I did not give you anything; I was but only yours,—upon my knees, All yours, in soul and body, in head and heart,— A creature you had taken from the ground, Still crumbling through your fingers to your feet To join the dust she came from. Did I love, Or did I worship? judge, Aurora Leigh! But, if indeed I loved, ’twas long ago,— So long! before the sun and moon were made, Before the hells were open,—ah, before I heard my child cry in the desert night, And knew he had no father. It may be, I’m not as strong as other women are, Who, torn and crushed, are not undone from love. It may be, I am colder than the dead, Who, being dead, love always. But for me Once killed, ... this ghost of Marian loves no more, No more ... except the child!... no more at all. I told your cousin, sir, that I was dead; And now, she thinks I’ll get up from my grave, And wear my chin-cloth for a wedding-veil, And glide along the churchyard like a bride, While all the dead keep whispering through the withes, ‘You would be better in your place with us, You pitiful corruption!’ At the thought, The damps break out on me like leprosy,