SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE (II)

by: Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

NLIKE are we, unlike, O princely Heart!

Unlike our uses and our destinies.

Our ministering two angels look surprise

On one another, as they strike athwart

Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art

A guest for queens for social pageantries,

With gages from a hundred brighter eyes

Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part

Of chief musician. What hast thou to do

With looking from the lattice-lights at me--

A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through

The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?

The chrism is on thine head--on mine the dew--

And Death must dig the level where these agree.

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