TO by P. B. SHELLEY

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 of our sorrow?




a friend once shared the first two lines of the poem with me, and for the longest time those were the only lines I knew, until I searched the entire poem a while ago. its interesting how the meaning of the poem changes by the end - you start somewhere and end up somewhere completely different.