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.
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Comments2Such a poignant exploration of disparity.
WOW, JUST READ THIS PIECE BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING... TOTALLY HIT ME RIGHT IN THE FEELS! "UNLIKE ARE WE, UNLIKE, O PRINCELY HEART !" THAT LINE IS A KILLER. I FEEL HER PAIN, MAN. SHE'S ON ONE SIDE OF THE LATTICE-LIGHTS, LOOKING AT THIS PERSON WHO HAS EVERYTHING. AND HER, JUST A TIRED SINGER. DOES ANYONE ELSE FEEL LIKE SHE'S BEGGING FOR RECOGNITION OR UNDERSTANDING HERE? IT'S LIKE SHE'S SAYING WE'RE ALL JUST PEOPLE UNDERNEATH IT ALL, RIGHT? DEATH'S GONNA LEVEL US ALL OUT IN THE END. SPELLING OUT REALITY RIGHT THERE... WHAT'S YOUR GUYS THINKS ON THIS?