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 curving point,--what bitter wrong <br />Can the earth do 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/sonnets-from-the-portuguese-v/
