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!