Quitting Vaucluse, His Soul Stays Behind with Laura

Those cherished hills which hold my spirit still
Where the heart lingers, though I tear my feet
Fiercely away, confront my dull retreat,
While I bear Love's dark burden by Love's will.
I marvel often that I can fulfil
The sweet yoke's duties which despair would cheat
In vain, that I can breathe and my pulse beat:
The more I run, the closer looms my ill.
And as the stag, by the dark arrow stricken,
The venomed iron rankling in his flank,
Flies the more swiftly as the red drops thicken,
So I, Love's lance-head in my heart, do thank
The Hunter, and, grief-racked, with poison rank,
Gladly endure the wound by which I sicken.