I cannot sleep for thinking of thy face,
Which thrusts itself between the dark and me,
Scaring my rest. Oh, for Heaven's gentle grace,
Haunt me not with this speechless misery.
What could I do that I have left undone,
That to thy life might bring content or peace?
Have I not made my days to hang upon
Thy will and wish, and every hour to beat
Only one patient, waiting, longing measure,
Unto thy going and thy coming feet,
Counting my greatest joy thy slightest pleasure?
And now I would I could but pour the treasure
Of my heart's life-blood out before it breaks,
To put a brighter colour in thy cheeks.
