To --
One word is too often profanedFor me to profane it,One feeling too falsely disdainedFor thee to disdain it;One hope is too like despairFor prudence to smother,And pity from thee more dearThan that from another.
I can give not what men call love,But wilt thou accept notThe worship the heart lifts aboveAnd the Heavens reject not,--The desire of the moth for the star,Of the night for the morrow,The devotion to something afarFrom the sphere of our sorrow?
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