The Clod and The Pebble

‘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.’