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？