I lift my heavy heart up solemnly As once Elektra her sepulchral urn And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn The ashes at thy feet, behold and see What a great heap of grief lay hid in me And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn Through the ashen greyness, if thy foot in scorn Could tread them out to darkness utterly It might be well perhaps, but if instead Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow The grey dust up ... those laurels on thine head O my beloved, will not shield thee so That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred The hair beneath, stand further off then! Go!
[Taken from the Elizabeth B.Browning's "Sonnets from the Portuguese"]