Amoretti LXXXIX by Edmund Spenser

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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,
Mourn to myself the absence of my love:
And wandering here and there all desolate,
Seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove:
Ne joy of aught that under heaven doth hove,
Can comfort me, but her own joyous sight:
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasauns to delight.
Dark is my day, while her fair light I miss,
And dead my life that wants such lively bliss.

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