599. Sonnets from the Portuguese XXII

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806—1861)

  WHEN our two souls stand up erect and strong,

  Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,

  Until the lengthening wings break into fire

  At either curvèd point,—what bitter wrong

  Can the earth do to us, that we should not long

  Be here contented? Think. In mounting higher,

  The angels would press on us and aspire

  To drop some golden orb of perfect song

  Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay

  Rather on earth, Belovèd,—where the unfit

  Contrarious moods of men recoil away

  And isolate pure spirits, and permit

  A place to stand and love in for a day,

  With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.