LXXVI
WITH every day that summer doth conceive
(Like some good mother, happily confined)
My love its simple homily doth find
In nature’s soft rejoicing, and receive
From winter’s sorrowing a just reprieve,
And think on thee with joy and pain combined,
When thou art absent, and of thy free mind
Return my sentiment, I do believe.
A sweet condition to my soul is this,
Bringing the blessedness of love from thee,
Commingling with my own long-felt desire;
And giving something of thyself to me.
Ah, seal this thought with one delicious kiss;
And let my heart to happiness aspire!