Two love(ly) poems.

The first is Victorian, and we should not forget that Victorians were the first to see romantic love as desirable, not dangerous. Austen would have called it sensibility, not sense.

When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire
At either curvèd point,—what bitter wrong
Can the earth do to us, that we should not long
Be here contented? Think. In mounting higher,
The angels would press on us and aspire
To drop some golden orb of perfect song
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay
Rather on earth, Belovèd,—where the unfit
Contrarious moods of men recoil away
And isolate pure spirits, and permit
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.

Elizabeth Barret Browning

And then this, which is E E Cummings, modern, and lacks a sense of heaven, hell, or entwinement, but does have the modern anomie and isolation.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience, your eyes have their silence

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers

you open always petal by petal myself as spring opens

(touching skilfully, misteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending,

nothing we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility; whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain has such small hands

e e cummings