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 sang 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.

William Blake