"Have not all songs been sung, all loves been told?
What shall I say when nought is left unsaid?
The world is full of memories of the dead,
Echoes, and relics. Here's no virgin gold,
But all assayed, none left for me to mould
Into new coin, and at your feet to shed,
Each piece is mint-marked with some poet's head,
Tested and rung in tributes manifold.
"O for a single word should be mine own—
And not the homage of long-studied art,