XIII.
Yea, all these things, and more than I can tell,
More than the most we know of, one and all,
Do talk of Love. There is no other call
From wind to wave, from rose to asphodel,
Than Love's alone—the thing we cannot quell,
Do what we will, from font to funeral.
XIV.
What have I done, I only on the earth,
That I should wait a century for a word?