to---

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.

i can give not what men call love,

but wilt thou accept not

the worship the heart lifts above

and the heaven 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?

percy bysshe shelley