The bride first. Jenny stood facing me and recited poem she had selected. It was very moving, perhaps especially to me, because it was a sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett:
"When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire…
From the corner of my eye I saw Phil Cavilleri, pale, slack-jawed, eyes wide with amazement and adoration combined. We listened to Jenny finish the sonnet, which was in its way a kind of prayer for
A place to stand and love in for a day,
with darkness and death hour rounding it."
Then it was my turn. It had been hard finding a piece of poetry I could read without blushing. I mean, I couldn't stand there and recite lace-doily phrases. I couldn't. But a section of Walt Whitman's Song of the Open road, though kind of brief, said it all for me:
… I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? Will you come travel with me?
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