`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.'