This verse-novel tells the story of a female writer, balancing work and love. It is and based on Elizabeth's own experiences. Excerpt from Aurora Leigh: A Poem in Nine Books Aurora Leigh. First Book. Of writing many books there is no end; And I, who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine, - Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer, and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is. I, writing thus, am still what men call young I have not so far left the coasts of life To travel inland, that I cannot hear That murmur of the outer Infinite Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep When wondered at for smiling; not so far, But still I catch my mother at her post Beside the nursery-door, with finger up, "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 has left us both, Stroke out my childish curls across his knee, And hear Assunta's daily jest (she knew He liked it better than a better jest) Inquire how many golden scudi went To make such ringlets. O my father's hand, Stroke heavily, heavily, the poor hair down, Draw, press the child's head closer to thy knee! I'm still too young, too young, to sit alone.
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