Again I try: "If all the leaves on all the trees Were counted over, And all the waves on all the seas, More times your lover, Yea! more than twice ten thousand times am I." "'Tis not enough," again you make reply.
"How many blades of grass," one day I said, "Are there from here to China? how many bees Have gathered honey through the centuries? Tell me how many roses have bloomed red Since the first rose till this rose in your hair? How many butterflies are born each year? How many raindrops are there in a shower? How many kisses, darling, in an hour?" Thereat you smiled, and shook your golden head; "Ah! not enough!" you said. Then said I: "Dear, it is not in my power To tell how much, how many ways, my love; Unnumbered are its ways even as all these, Nor any depth so deep, nor height above, May match therewith of any stars or seas." "I would hear more," you smiled . . .
"Then, love," I said, "This will I do: unbind me all this gold Too heavy for your head, And, one by one, I'll count each shining thread, And when the tale of all its wealth is told . . ." "As much as that!" you said-- "Then the full sum of all my love I'll speak, To the last unit tell the thing you ask . . ." Thereat the gold, in gleaming torrents shed, Fell loose adown each cheek, Hiding you from me; I began my task.
My love said she had nought to wear; Her garments all were old, And soon her body must go bare Against the winter's cold.
I took her out into the dawn, And from the mountain's crest Unwound long wreaths of misty lawn, And wound them round her breast.
Then passed we to the maple grove, Like a great hall of gold, The yellow and the red we wove In rustling flounce and fold.
"Now, love," said I, "go, do it on! And I would have you note No lovely lady dead and gone Had such a petticoat."
Then span I out of milkweeds fine Fair stockings soft and long, And other things of quaint design That unto maids belong.
And beads of amber and of pearl About her neck I strung, And in the bronze of her thick hair The purple grape I hung. . . .
Then led her to a glassy spring, And bade her look and see If any girl in all the world Had such fine clothes as she.
I will walk down to the valley And lay my head in her breast, Where are two white doves, The Queen of Love's, In a silken nest; And, all the afternoon, They croon and croon The one word "Rest!" And a little stream That runs thereby Sings "Dream!" Over and over It sings-- "O lover, Dream!"