Long hath lost that raptur’d paradise in early May,

Long, long have globed peonies forgot spring’s genial touch.

O beloved mine! The languished wing of thy vison, like a fair day

Long’d by the orient dawn, waveth gently o’er my sleeping couch.

Were I the mermaid kneeling upon a sea-girt rock in tears,

Whose woe in magic throat was by the Moon at least known;

Were I the water nymph who had been lovelorn for years:

She could catch a glimpse of Apollo’s vision, though all alone;

Ay, only if them I were—but, alas! What else shall I a girl to be

But the maid of Eros, loving what was thy love,

Ling’ring at where thou hadst been, fantast for the hid thee,

(unto my Life’s flower withereth, and dear Cytherea bringeth no move.)

Three beauties are there: thou, the sunshine, and the moonlight.

Sunshine for day; moonlight for night; thou for day and night.