Amoretti LXXXIX: Lyke as the Culver on the barèd bough

Lyke as the Culver on the barèd bough, Sits mourning for the absence of her mate: And in her songs sends many a wishfull vow, For his returne that seemes to linger late, So I alone now left disconsolate, Mourne to my selfe the absence of my love: And wandring here and there all desolate, Seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove: Ne joy of ought that under heaven doth hove, Can comfort me, but her owne joyous sight: Whose sweet aspèct both God and man can move, In her unspotted pleasauns to delight. Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis, And dead my life that wants such lively blis.