For me to profane¹ it

    One feeling too falsely disdain³'d

    For thee to disdain it.

    One hope is too like despair

    For prudence⁴ to smother⁵

    And pity from thee more dear

    Than that from another.

    I can give not what men call love；

    But wilt⁷ thou accept not

    The worship the heart lifts above

    And the Heavens reject not：

    The desire of the moth⁶ for the star

    Of the night for the morrow

    The devotion to something afar

    From the sphere of our sorrow？