Classic Poem

CCLVIII

Absence, alas,
Causeth me pass
From all solace
To great grievance.

Yet though that I
Absent must be,
I trust that she
Hath remembrance.

Where I her find
Loving and kind,
There my poor mind
Eased shall be.
And for my part,
My love and heart
Shall not revert
Though I should die.

Beauty, pleasure,
Riches, treasure,
Or to endure
In prison strong
Shall not me make
Her to forsake
Though I should lack
Her never so long.

For once trust I,
Ere that I die,
For to espy
The happy hour,
At liberty
With her to be
That pities me
In this dolour.