For, while I love thee above measure,
To numbers I’ll ne’er be confined.
“Count the bees that on Hybla are playing;
Count the flowers that enamel its fields;
Count the flocks that on Tempe are straying;
Or the grain that rich Sicily yields.
“Go number the stars in the heaven;
Count how many sands on the shore:
When so many kisses you’ve given,
I still shall be craving for more.