22

Come darkest Night, becomming sorrow best,
Light leave thy light, fit for a lightsome soule:
Darknesse doth truely sute with me opprest,
Whom absence power doth from mirthe controule.
The very trees with hanging heads condole
Sweet Summers parting, and of leaves distrest,
In dying colours make a grief-full role;
So much alas to sorrow are they prest.
Thus of dead leaves, her farewell carpets made,
Their fall, their branches, all their mournings prove,
With leavlesse naked bodies, whose hues fade
From hopefull greene to wither in their love.
If trees, and leaves for absence mourners be,
No marvell that I grieve, who like want see.