By Percy Bysshe Shelley
One word is too often profaned
For me to profan it,
One feeling too falsely disdain'd
For thee to disdain it;
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.
I can give not what man call love;
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not,-
The desire of the moth for star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?