The beautiful seems right By force of beauty, and the feeble wrong Because of weakness. I, writing thus, am still what men call young; I have not so far left the coasts of life To travel inland, that I cannot hear That murmur of the outer Infinite Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep When wondered at for smiling; not so far, But still I catch my mother at her post Beside the nursery-door, with finger up, 'Hush, hush—here's too much noise! There are absurd philanthropies in abundance, pretentious schemes with no heart in them, false and idle. . Your brother's daughter has dismissed me here; And all my answer can be better said Beneath the trees, than wrong by such a word Your house's hospitalities. Love, to him, was made A simple law-clause. Well, sir I ask you I insist at need, Vouchsafe the special date, the special date.
Authorised By sight and knowledge, then, you'll speak your mind, And prove to Romney, in your brilliant way, He'll wrong the people and posterity Say such a thing is bad for you and me, And you fail utterly , by concluding thus An execrable marriage. She had pored for years What sort of woman could be suitable To her sort of hate, to entertain it with; And so, her very curiosity Became hate too, and all the idealism She ever used in life, was used for hate, Till hate, so nourished, did exceed at last The love from which it grew, in strength and heat, And wrinkled her smooth conscience with a sense Of disputable virtue say not, sin When Christian doctrine was enforced at church. Then let me grow Within my wayside hedge, and pass your way! I drew breath, As hard as in a sick-room. More pathetic yet is when the status quo suckers bend over backwards to excuse the artificiality as if, pound for pound, the more neglected demographic did not meet the demands, layer by layer, pillar by pillar, defined by such vaunted categories as the epic poem. Come, sweep my barns and keep my hospitals, And I will pay thee with a current coin Which men give women. The love story, albeit very Jane Eyre, is also touching although I'd like to imagine they're slightly more distant cousins than described. It is seven years since: I know not if 'twas pity or 'twas scorn Has made them so far-reaching: judge it ye Who have had to do with pity more than love And scorn than hatred.
She also, however, at times dismissed the deaths of some of these very people on the barricades in with a troubling casualness. Have you heard of Romney Leigh, Beyond what's said of him in newspapers, His phalansteries there, his speeches here, His pamphlets, pleas, and statements, everywhere? Charlottesville: U of Virginia P, 1996. Aurora Leigh is a political poem because it is a physical poem. And so, through forced work and spontaneous work, The inner life informed the outer life, Reduced the irregular blood to settled rhythms, Made cool the forehead with fresh-sprinkling dreams, And, rounding to the spheric soul the thin Pined body, struck a colour up the cheeks, Though somewhat faint. On hearing this story, Aurora rejects conventional judgements and takes Marian with her to live in Florence.
There are fatal days, indeed, In which the fibrous years have taken root So deeply, that they quiver to their tops Whene'er you stir the dust of such a day. She lay there, stunned, half tranced, And wished, at intervals of growing sense, She might be sicker yet, if sickness made The world so marvellous kind, the air so hushed, And all her wake-time quiet as a sleep; For now she understood, as such things were How sickness ended very oft in heaven, Among the unspoken raptures. Pray God be with me, Romney. We get no good By being ungenerous, even to a book, And calculating profits. In America, the feminist activist and suffragist Susan B. I loved you for my part; I love you.
And so passed Marian's life from year to year. Having said that, it is an important proto-feminist work. And last I learnt cross-stitch, because she did not like To see me wear the night with empty hands, A-doing nothing. If we sleep on rocks Or roses, sleeping past the hour of noon We're lazy. She has also published essays and articles on the Brownings, Tennyson, Dickens, Gaskell, Christina Rossetti, Frederick Douglass, and Toni Morrison, as well as contemporary subjects including gender theory, sex trafficking, Canadian multiculturalism, cultural citizenship, and the corporate university. Let us two be friends.
We all turn stiller than we have ever been. It may be, perhaps, Such have not settled long and deep enough In trance, to attain to clairvoyance,—and still The memory mixes with the vision, spoils, And works it turbid. Ah, my sweet, come down, And hand in hand we'll go where yours shall touch These victims, one by one! No name writ on it poems, by the form; Some Greek upon the margin, lady's Greek Without the accents. I could not be unthankful, I who was Entreated thus and holpen. A little by his act perhaps, yet more By something in me, surely not my will, I did not die. May God change His world For your sake, sweet, and make it mild as heaven, And juster than I have found you.
I could not mean to tell her to her face That Romney Leigh had asked me for a wife, And I refused him? It takes a soul, To move body: it takes a high-souled man, To move the masses. Did Shakspeare and his mates Absorb the light here? Browning's volume Poems 1844 brought her great success. Ah, dearest lady, serge will outweigh silk For winter-wear, when bodies feel a-cold, And I'll be a true wife to your cousin Leigh. Aurora Leigh is a weird book. O my father's hand, Stroke heavily, heavily, the poor hair down, Draw, press the child's head closer to thy knee! I would rather dance At fairs on tight-rope, till the babies dropped Their gingerbread for joy,—than shift the types For tolerable verse, intolerable To men who act and suffer.
Should they be allowed to work outside the home? The room does very well; I have to write Beyond the stroke of midnight. Nevertheless, she managed to break the limits of accepted social procedures and become one of the most important Victorian poets—regardless of the fact that she was a woman. So glad, I could not choose be very wise! And, being but poor, I was constrained, for life, To work with one hand for the booksellers, While working with the other for myself And art. They yelled at her, As famished hounds at a hare. Works Cited A Celebration of Women.