To —

I

One word is too often profaned

   For me to profane it,

One feeling too falsely disdained

   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.

II

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?