Although I’m clean. Ay, clean as Marian Erle: As Marian Leigh, I know, I were not clean: I have not so much life that I should love, ... Except the child. Ah God! I could not bear To see my darling on a good man’s knees, And know by such a look, or such a sigh, Or such a silence, that he thought sometimes, ‘This child was fathered by some cursed wretch’ ... For, Romney,—angels are less tender-wise Than God and mothers: even _you_ would think What _we_ think never. He is ours, the child; And we would sooner vex a soul in heaven By coupling with it the dead body’s thought, It left behind it in a last month’s grave, Than, in my child, see other than ... my child. We only, never call him fatherless Who has God and his mother. O my babe, My pretty, pretty blossom, an ill-wind Once blew upon my breast! can any think I’d have another,—one called happier, A fathered child, with father’s love and race That’s worn as bold and open as a smile, To vex my darling when he’s asked his name And has no answer? What! a happier child Than mine, my best,—who laughed so loud to-night He could not sleep for pastime? Nay, I swear By life and love, that, if I lived like some, And loved like ... _some_ ... ay, loved you, Romney Leigh, As some love (eyes that have wept so much, see clear), I’ve room for no more children in my arms; My kisses are all melted on one mouth; I would not push my darling to a stool To dandle babies. Here’s a hand, shall keep For ever clean without a marriage-ring, To tend my boy, until he cease to need One steadying finger of it, and desert (Not miss) his mother’s lap, to sit with men. And when I miss him (not he me) I’ll come And say, ‘Now give me some of Romney’s work, To help your outcast orphans of the world, And comfort grief with grief.’ For you, meantime, Most noble Romney, wed a noble wife, And open on each other your great souls,— I need not farther bless you. If I dared But strain and touch her in her upper sphere, And say, ‘Come down to Romney—pay my debt!’ I should be joyful with the stream of joy Sent through me. But the moon is in my face ... I dare not,—though I guess the name he loves; I’m learned with my studies of old days, Remembering how he crushed his under-lip When some one came and spoke, or did not come: Aurora, I could touch her with my hand, And fly, because I dare not.’ She was gone. He smiled so sternly that I spoke in haste. ‘Forgive her—she sees clearly for herself: Her instinct’s holy,’ ‘_I_ forgive?’ he said, ‘I only marvel how she sees so sure, While others’ ... there he paused,—then hoarse, abrupt,— Aurora! you forgive us, her and me? For her, the thing she sees, poor loyal child,