Amoretti LXXXIX: Lyke as the Culver on the barèd bough

By Edmund Spenser

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.