Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/176

Had fallen as thunder on a roaring fire,
And made all silent,—while the people’s smoke
Passed eddying slowly from the emptied aisles.

Here ’s Marian’s letter, which a ragged child
Brought running, just as Romney at the porch
Looked out expectant of the bride. He sent
The letter to me by his friend Lord Howe
Some two hours after, folded in a sheet
On which his well-known hand had left a word.
Here ’s Marian’s letter.
⁠‘Noble friend, dear saint
Be patient with me. Never think me vile,
Who might to-morrow morning be your wife
But that I loved you more than such a name.
Farewell, my Romney. Let me write it once,—
My Romney.
⁠''Tis so pretty a coupled word,
I have no heart to pluck it with a blot.
We say ‘My God’ sometimes, upon our knees,
Who is not therefore vexed: so bear with it . .
And me. I know I’m foolish, weak, and vain;
Yet most of all I’m angry with myself
For losing your last footstep on the stair,
The last time of your coming,—yesterday!
The very first time I lost step of yours,
(Its sweetness comes the next to what you speak)
But yesterday sobs took me by the throat,
And cut me off from music.
⁠‘Mister Leigh,