Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I miss, And dead my life that wants such lively bliss.

Like as the culver on the bared bough,

Sits mourning for the absence of her mate,

And in her songs sends many a wishful vow,

For his return that seems to linger late.

So I alone now left disconsolate,

mourne to my selfe the absence of my loue:

and wandring here and there all desolate,

seek with my playnts to match that mournful doue.

Ne ioy of ought that vnder heauen doth houe,

can comfort me, but her owne ioyous sight:

whose sweet aspect both God and man can moue,

in her vnspotted pleasauns to delight.

Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,

and dead my life that wants such liuely blis.

 

Edmund Spenser (1552-1599), Amoretti - Sonnet LXXXIX.

 

Purple spring in my garden, on Dodyria planet

Done