Edmund Spenser (1552?–1599)

LIKE as the culver on the baréd bough

Sits mourning for the absence of her mate;

And in her songs sends many a wishful vow

For his return that seems to linger late:

So I alone, now left disconsolate,

Mourn to myself the absence of my Love;

And, wandering here and there all desolate,

Seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove:

Ne joy of aught that under heaven doth hove

Can comfort me, but her own joyous sight;

Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move

In her unspotted pleasance to delight.

Dark is my day, whiles her fair light I miss;

And dead my life, that wants such lively bliss.