“I love you, loved you . . . loved you first and last,

 And love you on for ever . . .

                      . . . I had known the same

 Except that I was prouder than I knew,

 And not so honest. Aye, and as I live

 I should have died so, crushing in my hand

 This rose of love, the wasp inside and all,—

 Ignoring ever to my soul and you

 Both rose and pain,—except for this great loss,

 This great despair . . .”

Aurora Leigh.

“And so, self-girded with torn strips of hope,

 Took up his life, as if it were for death

 (Just capable of one heroic aim),

 And threw it in the thickest of the world.”