To Flora. Asking How Well I Love Her. Poem by Henry Baker

That I love You, pray believe,
But enquire not how well:
All the Answer I can give,
Is, My Life! I cannot tell.

Bid me in the smiling Spring
Count the Leaves and Blossoms gay;
And the Birds that sweetly sing
In the charming Month of May.

Bid Me, on the dusty Plain
Count the Atoms which arise,
Tell the Drops that fill the Main,
Or the Stars that gild the Skies;

Measure out the Depth of Hell,
Or the Height of Heav'n prove:
These I easier can tell
Than how much it is I love.