AURORA LEIGH. FIRST BOOK. Or writing many books there is no end; Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, I, writing thus, am still what men call young; To travel inland, that I cannot hear Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep 'Hush, hush-here's too much noise!' while her sweet eyes Leap forward, taking part against her word 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 VOL III. 1 He liked it better than a better jest) I write. My mother was a Florentine, As restless as a nest-deserted bird Grown chill through something being away, though what It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born And stringing pretty words that make no sense, |