Love seeketh not Itself to please,nNor for itself hath any care;nBut for another gives its ease,nAnd builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.nn So sang a little Clod of Clay,n Trodden with the cattle's feet:n But a pebble of the brook,n Warbled out these metres meet.nnLove seeketh only Self to please,nTo bind another to Its delight:nJoys in another's loss of ease,nAnd builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.