Classic Poem

Like as the culver on the bared bough
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate,
And in her moan 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 pleasaunce to delight:

Dark is my day whiles her fair light I miss,
And dead my life, that wants such lively bliss.