And this would set me higher by the head Than now I stand. No matter: let the truth Stand high; Aurora must be humble: no, My love’s not pity merely. Obviously I’m not a generous woman, never was, Or else, of old, I had not looked so near To weights and measures, grudging you the power To give, as first I scorned your power to judge For me, Aurora: I would have no gifts Forsooth, but God’s,—and I would use _them_, too, According to my pleasure and my choice, As He and I were equals,—you, below, Excluded from that level of interchange Admitting benefaction. You were wrong In much? you said so. I was wrong in most. Oh, most! You only thought to rescue men By half-means, half-way, seeing half their wants, While thinking nothing of your personal gain. But I who saw the human nature broad, At both sides, comprehending, too, the soul’s, And all the high necessities of Art, Betrayed the thing I saw, and wronged my own life For which I pleaded. Passioned to exalt The artist’s instinct in me at the cost Of putting down the woman’s,—I forgot No perfect artist is developed here From any imperfect woman. Flower from root, And spiritual from natural, grade by grade In all our life. A handful of the earth To make God’s image! the despised poor earth, The healthy odorous earth,—I missed, with it, The divine Breath that blows the nostrils out To ineffable inflatus: ay, the breath Which love is. Art is much, but love is more. O Art, my Art, thou’rt much, but Love is more! Art symbolises heaven, but Love is God And makes heaven. I, Aurora, fell from mine: I would not be a woman like the rest, A simple woman who believes in love, And owns the right of love because she loves, And, hearing she’s beloved, is satisfied With what contents God: I must analyse, Confront, and question; just as if a fly Refused to warm itself in any sun Till such was _in leone_: I must fret Forsooth, because the month was only May; Be faithless of the kind of proffered love, And captious, lest it miss my dignity, And scornful, that my lover sought a wife To use ... to use! O Romney, O my love, I am changed since then, changed wholly,—for indeed, If now you’d stoop so low to take my love, And use it roughly, without stint or spare, As men use common things with more behind, (And, in this, ever would be more behind) To any mean and ordinary end,— The joy would set me like a star, in heaven, So high up, I should shine because of height And not of virtue. Yet in one respect, Just one, beloved, I am in no wise changed: I love you, loved you ... loved you first and last, And love you on for ever. Now I know I loved you always, Romney. She who died Knew that, and said so; Lady Waldemar Knows that; ... and Marian: I had known the same