Oh, call it by some better name,
    For Friendship sounds too cold,
While Love is now a worldly flame,
    Whose shrine must be of gold:
And Passion, like the sun at noon,
    That burns o'er all he sees,
Awhile as warm will set as soon--
    Then call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far,
    More free from stain of clay
Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are,
    Yet human, still as they:
And if thy lip, for love like this,
    No mortal word can frame,
Go, ask of angels what it is,
    And call it by that name!