Percy Bysshe Shelley                   One Word 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 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 or our sorrow? 1821