from Aurora Leigh, Third Book

Why what a pettish, petty thing I grow,–

A mere, mere woman,–a mere flaccid nerve,-

A kerchief left out all night in the rain,

Turned soft so,–overtasked and overstrained

And overlived in this close London life!

And yet I should be stronger.

                          Never burn

Your letters, poor Aurora! for they stare

With red seals from the table, saying each,

'Here's something that you know not.'