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 sphеre of our sorrow?