“Dear, my soul is grey
With poring over the long sum of ill;
So much for vice, so much for discontent…
Coherent in statistical despairs
With such a total of distracted life,
To see it down in figures on a page,
Plain, silent, clear, as God sees through the earth
The sense of all the graves, - that’s terrible
For one who is not God, and cannot right
The wrong he looks on. May I choose indeed
But vow away my years, my means, my aims,
Among the helpers, if there’s any help
In such a social strait? The common blood
That swings along my veins, is strong enough
To draw me to this duty.”
“Dear, my soul is grey With poring over the long sum of ill; So much for vice, so much for discontent… Coherent in statistical despairs With such a total of distracted life, To see it down in figures on a page, Plain, silent, clear, as God sees through the earth The sense of all the graves, - that’s terrible For one who is not God, and cannot right The wrong he looks on. May I choose indeed But vow away my years, my means, my aims, Among the helpers, if there’s any help In such a social strait? The common blood That swings along my veins, is strong enough To draw me to this duty.”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Aurora Leigh, 1856