Fourteen small broidered berries on the hern
Of Circe's mantle, each of magic gold;
Fourteen of lone Calypso's tears that rolled
Into the sea, for pearls to come to them;
Fourteen clear signs of omen in the gem
With which Medea human fate foretold
Fourteen small drops, which Fautus, growing old,
Craved of the Fiend, to water Life's stem

From What the Sonnet Is.