'Love seeketh not itself to please,
       Nor for itself hath any care,
       But for another gives its ease,
       And builds a heaven in hell's despair.'
       So sung a little clod of clay,
       Trodden with the cattle's feet,
       But a pebble of the brook
       Warbled out these metres meet:
       'Love seeketh only Self to please,
       To bind another to its delight,
       Joys in another's loss of ease,
       And builds a hell in heaven's despite.'