Sonnet CCXXXVIII:
Well, after all the prattle buzzed around
The soldier’s victory, the miser’s gold,
The statesman’s eloquence, the manifold
And subtle cadence which the poet wound;
What are they all, but vain and empty sound
To ears that listen with the reason cold?
What idler homage to a creature, rolled
In cerements, crested with a little mound?
Ask him, the laureled Lord who reigned above
Man’s common fortune as a demi-god,
What jewel found he in this earthy clod,
And he will answer—for dead lips may move
To shape that word, as clearly as the nod
Of dumb and blushing Phyllis—only love!
