Shelley:

August 26, 2012 § Leave a comment

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?

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