Say what you will,
If love would have its fill,
Though it may feed long on the one dear face,
It never is content, save in embrace.
Say what you will,
Though passion have its fill,
It never is content, nor has delight,
If love come not to sanctify the rite.
Harmonious flesh and spirit,
These only shall inherit
The joys of earth, and in the dread To Be
Not death itself shall break that unity.
Woe to the narrow heart
Would strive these twain to part;
Look down the ages, through the world’s mad din,
This is the one unpardonable sin.