One word is too often profaned 

 

For me to profane it,

 

One feeling too falsely distain'd

 

For thee to distain it;

 

One hope is too like despair

 

For prudence to smother,

 

And pity from thee more dear

 

Than that from another.

 

I can not give what men call love:

 

But wilt thou accept not

 

The worship the heart lifts above

 

And the heavens reject not,

 

And the desire of the moth for the star,

 

Of the nigth for the morrow

 

The devotion to something afar

 

From the sphere of our sorrow.