I.
One word is too often
For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely
For thee to disdain it;
One hope is too like
For prudence to smother,
And pity from thee more
Than that from another.
II.
I can give not what men call love,
But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts
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?
