.
.
            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.

                   I I.

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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