One word is too often profaned
     For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained
     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 men call love,
     But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
     And the Heavens reject not,—
The desire of the moth for the star,
     Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
     From the sphere of our sorrow?

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