Unlike 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 to 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.

I’ve just been reading this series of sonnets by Elizabeth Barret Browning, and I really like them. Found the site via a link to this most well known poem, via Growabrain.

I get the urge to post all of them as soon as I read them. They make me motivated to try much harder with my own attempts at poetry.