Sonnet Ccxxxviii: Poem by George Henry Boker

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!