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Authors:

One word is too often profaned. For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdain'd. For thee to disdain it. One hope too like dispair. For prudence to smother, I can give not what men call love: But wilt thou accept not. The worship the heart lifts above. And heaven rejects not: The desire of the moth for the star, The devotion of something afar. From the sphere of our sorrow?

Percy Bysshe Shelley