Show OLD MASTERS One word Is too often oUen profaned For tor me to profane It it One feeling too often oUen 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 ghe not what wh t men all love But wilt thou accept not The worship that heart lifts above And ADd the heavens hea reject not The desire of 01 the moth for the star Of ot the night for tor the morrow The devotion to something afar atar From the sphere sl of our sorrow Perry Percy Percy Bysshe Shelley To To |