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One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely distain'd For thee to distain it;One hope is too like despairFor prudence to smother,And pity from thee more dear Than that from another. I can not give what men call love: But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the heavens reject not, And the desire of the moth for the star, Of the nigth for the morrow The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.
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