TWO strangers, from opposing poles, <br />Meet in the torrid zone of Love: <br />And their desire seems set above <br />The limitation of their souls. <br /> <br />This is the trap; this is the snare, <br />This is the false, enchanting light, <br />And when it smoulders into night, <br />How can each know the other is there? <br /> <br />They own no bond of common speech; <br />Each, from far shores by wild winds brought, <br />Gropes for some cord of common thought <br />To draw the other within reach. <br /> <br />Each when the dark tide drowns their star, <br />Cries out, 'Thou art not one with me: <br />One flesh we seemed when eyes could see, <br />But now, how far thou art! How far!' <br /> <br />Each calling, 'Come! be mine! be wise!' <br />Stands obstinately in his place, <br />How can these two come face to face, <br />Till light spring from their meeting eyes? <br /> <br />Could both but once cry, 'Far thou art, <br />But I am coming!' How the beat <br />Of waves that part them would retreat, <br />Resurge and find them, heart to heart!<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-egoists/
