Time’s sea hath been five years at its slow ebb;
Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand,
Since I was tangled in thy beauty’s web,
And snared by the ungloving of thy hand:
And yet I never look on midnight sky,
But I behold thine eyes’ well-memoried light;
I cannot look upon the rose’s dye,
But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight:
I cannot look on any budding flower,
But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips,
And hearkening for a love-sound, doth devour
Its sweets in the wrong sense. — Thou dost eclipse
Every delight with sweet remembering,
And grief unto my darling joys dost bring.