"One word is too often profaned"

    For me to profane 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 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？