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September 10, 2007

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
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
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?

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

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2 Comments leave one →
  1. September 12, 2007 11:20 AM

    I was always an admirer of Shelley when I was a lot younger. Then, probably under peer pressure, the notion of what poetry is cool changed. Rhyme became passé. Free verse was happening. All of a sudden, my notion of beauty became distant from my notion of simplicity. This post reminds me of what I was and what my thoughts were when I was far more innocent and true to my core.

  2. September 14, 2007 5:52 PM

    Ah, Shelley.

    Actually, I was just being pretentious. I haven’t read any of his, but this certainly was good. Thanks for putting it up.

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