Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)

O, WILT thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine?

As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine.

Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear,… unfit to plight with thine.

O, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own?

My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run down.

Now leave a little space, Dear,… lest it should wet thine own.

O, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul?—

Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand,… the part is in the whole!

Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is join’d to soul.