Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXII

When our two souls stand up erect and strong,Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,Until the lengthening wings break into fireAt either curvèd point,-what bitter wrongCan the earth do to us, that we should not longBe here contented? Think! In mounting higher,The angels would press on us and aspireTo drop some golden orb of perfect songInto our deep, dear silence. Let us stayRather on earth, Belovèd,-where the unfitContrarious moods of men recoil awayAnd isolate pure spirits, and permitA place to stand and love in for a day,With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.