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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 curved
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 us on
and aspire
To drop some golden orb of
perfect song
Into our deep, dear silence.
Let us stay
Rather on earth,
Beloved--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.
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