<h2>XXII</h2>
<p>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 curvëd point,—what bitter wrong<br/>
Can the earth do to 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, Belovëd,—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.</p>
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