[1] Count Me, On The Summer Trees, Every Leaf That Courts The Breeze; Count Me, On The Foamy Deep, Every Wave That Sinks To Sleep; Then, When You Have Numbered These Billowy Tides And Leafy Trees, Count Me All The Flames I Prove, All The Gentle Nymphs I Love. First, Of Pure Athenian Maids Sporting In Their Olive Shades, You May Reckon Just A Score, Nay, I'll Grant You Fifteen More. In The Famed Corinthian Grove, Where Such Countless Wantons Rove,[2] Chains Of Beauties May Be Found, Chains, By Which My Heart Is Bound; There, Indeed, Are Nymphs Divine, Dangerous To A Soul Like Mine. Many Bloom In Lesbos' Isle; Many In Ionia Smile; Rhodes A Pretty Swarm Can Boast; Caria Too Contains A Host. Sum Them All--Of Brown And Fair You May Count Two Thousand There. What, You Stare? I Pray You Peace! More I'll Find Before I Cease. Have I Told You All My Flames, 'Mong The Amorous Syrian Dames? Have I Numbered Every One, Glowing Under Egypt'S Sun? Or The Nymphs, Who Blushing Sweet Deck The Shrine Of Love In Crete; Where The God, With Festal Play, Holds Eternal Holiday? Still In Clusters, Still Remain Gades' Warm, Desiring Train:[3] Still There Lies A Myriad More On The Sable India'S Shore; These, And Many Far Removed, All Are Loving--All Are Loved!