Well, is my heart so narrow—I, who spare
Love for all these? Do I not even hold
My favourite books in special tender care,
And prize them as a miser does his gold?
The Poets that you used to read to me
While summer twilights faded in the sky;
But most of all I think Aurora Leigh,
Because—because—do you remember why?
Will you be jealous? Did you guess before
I loved so many things?—Still you the best:-
Dearest, remember that I love you more,
Oh, more a thousand times than all the rest!
VERSE: THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL
FOUNDED ON AN OLD FRENCH LEGEND
The fettered Spirits linger
In purgatorial pain,
With penal fires effacing
Their last faint earthly stain,
Which Life’s imperfect sorrow
Had tried to cleanse in vain.
Yet on each feast of Mary
Their sorrow finds release,
For the Great Archangel Michael
Comes down and bids it cease;
And the name of these brief respites
Is called “Our Lady’s Peace.”
Yet once—so runs the Legend—
When the Archangel came
And all these holy spirits
Rejoiced at Mary’s name;
One voice alone was wailing,
Still wailing on the same.
And though a great Te Deum
The happy echoes woke,
This one discordant wailing
Through the sweet voices broke;
So when St. Michael questioned,
Thus the poor spirit spoke:-
“I am not cold or thankless,
Although I still complain;
I prize our Lady’s blessing
Although it comes in vain
To still my bitter anguish,
Or quench my ceaseless pain.