by Percy Bysshe Shelley
To Edward Williams
To -

To -

Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824.

 1. 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. 
 2. 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?