Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/11

In the child’s riot.Still I sit and feel
My father’s slow hand, when she had left us both,
Stroke out my childish curls across his knee;
And hear Assunta’s daily jest (she knew
He liked it better than a better jest)
Inquire how many golden scudi went
To make such ringlets.O my father’s hand,
Stroke the poor hair down, stroke it heavily,—
Draw, press the child’s head closer to thy knee!
I’m still too young, too young to sit alone.

I write.My mother was a Florentine,
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from seeing me
When scarcely I was four years old; my life,
A poor spark snatched up from a failing lamp
Which went out therefore. She was weak and frail;
She could not bear the joy of giving life—
The mother’s rapture slew her.If her kiss
Had left a longer weight upon my lips,
It might have steadied the uneasy breath,
And reconciled and fraternised my soul
With the new order.As it was, indeed,
I felt a mother-want about the world,
And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb
Left out at night, in shutting up the fold,—
As restless as a nest-deserted bird
Grown chill through something being away, though what
It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born
To make my father sadder, and myself
Not overjoyous, truly.Women know