Give you a problem for your midnight toil,—

One you can study till your hair is white

And never solve and never guess aright,

Although you burn to dregs your midnight oil?

O Sage, I give one that will make you moil.

Just take one weakling little woman's heart.

Prepare your patience, furbish up your art.

How now? Did I not see you then recoil?

Tell me how many times it has known pain;

Tell me what thing will make it feel delight;

Tell me when it is modest, when 'tis vain;

Tell me when it is wrong and when 'tis right:

But tell me this, all other things above,—

Can it feel, Sage, the thing that man calls "Love"?