When our two souls stand up erect and strong, <br />Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, <br />Until the lengthening wings break into fire <br />At either curved point,--what bitter wrong <br />Can the earth do to us, that we should not long <br />Be here contented ? Think. In mounting higher, <br />The angels would press on us and aspire <br />To drop some golden orb of perfect song <br />Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay <br />Rather on earth, Beloved,--where the unfit <br />Contrarious moods of men recoil away <br />And isolate pure spirits, and permit <br />A place to stand and love in for a day, <br />With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.<br /><br />Elizabeth Barrett Browning<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxii-3/
