To-

By Percy Bysshe Shelley

One word is too often profaned

For me to profan it,

One feeling too falsely disdain'd

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 man call love;

But wilt thou accept not

The worship the heart lifts above

And the Heavens reject not,-

The desire of the moth for star,

Of the night for the morrow,

The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow?