‘It strikes me, some of those sublime Vandykes Were not too proud, to make good saints in heaven; And, if so, then they’re not too proud to-day To bow down (now the ruffs are off their necks) And own this good, true, noble Marian, ... yours, And mine, I’ll say!—For poets (bear the word) Half-poets even, are still whole democrats,— Oh, not that we’re disloyal to the high, But loyal to the low, and cognisant Of the less scrutable majesties. For me, I comprehend your choice—I justify Your right in choosing.’ ‘No, no, no,’ he sighed, With a sort of melancholy impatient scorn, As some grown man, who never had a child, Puts by some child who plays at being a man; —‘You did not, do not, cannot comprehend My choice, my ends, my motives, nor myself: No matter now—we’ll let it pass, you say. I thank you for your generous cousinship Which helps this present; I accept for her Your favourable thoughts. We’re fallen on days, We two, who are not poets, when to wed Requires less mutual love than common love, For two together to bear out at once Upon the loveless many. Work in pairs, In galley-couplings or in marriage-rings, The difference lies in the honour, not the work,— And such we’re bound to, I and she. But love, (You poets are benighted in this age; The hour’s too late for catching even moths, You’ve gnats instead,) love!—love’s fool-paradise Is out of date, like Adam’s. Set a swan To swim the Trenton, rather than true love To float its fabulous plumage safely down The cataracts of this loud transition-time,— Whose roar, for ever, henceforth, in my ears, Must keep me deaf to music.’ There, I turned And kissed poor Marian, out of discontent. The man had baffled, chafed me, till I flung For refuge to the woman,—as, sometimes, Impatient of some crowded room’s close smell, You throw a window open, and lean out To breathe a long breath in the dewy night, And cool your angry forehead. She, at least, Was not built up, as walls are, brick by brick; Each fancy squared, each feeling ranged by line, The very heat of burning youth applied To indurate forms and systems! excellent bricks, A well-built wall,—which stops you on the road, And, into which, you cannot see an inch Although you beat your head against it—pshaw!