ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
692 (v)
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 curving point, what bitter wrong Can the earth do us, that we should not long
Be here contented? Think' In mounting higher,
The angels would press on us, 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.
��FREDERICK TENNYSON
693 The Holy Tide
THE days are sad, it is the Holy tide. The Winter morn is short, the Night is long; So let the lifeless Hours be glorified
With deathless thoughts and echo'd in sweet song: And through the sunset of this purple cup
They will resume the robes of their prime, And the old Dead will hear us and wake up,
Pass with dim sirUes and make our hearts sublime!
�� �
