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Poem	ONE word is too often profaned For me to profane it One feeling too falsely disdain'd For thee to disdain it. One hope is too like despair 5 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 10 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 15 From the sphere of our sorrow?
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