Every once in a while there springs to life a love story so beautiful that it becomes the ideal, and the essence of all that romance should be. In London, in the early nineteenth century, Elizabeth Barrett was a poet of some prestige, an invalid, but still a beautiful and enchanting woman. Robert Browning was dashing, handsome, and at thirty three, he was a poet of promise. Both of them had books published, and out of sincere mutual admiration, they began to correspond with one another...