Classic Poem

Lackyng my love I go from place to place,
Lyke a young fawne that late hath lost the hynd:
And seeke each where, where last I sawe her face,
Whose ymage yet I carry fresh in mynd.
I seeke the fields with her late footing synd,
I seeke her bowre with her late presence deckt,
Yet nor in field nor bowre I her can fynd:
Yet field and bowre are full of her aspect.
But when myne eyes I thereunto direct,
They ydly back returne to me agayne,
And when I hope to see theyr trew object,
I fynd my selfe but fed with fancies vayne.
Ceasse then myne eyes, to seeke her selfe to see,
And let my thoughts behold her selfe in mee.