Lackyng my love, I go from place to place, Lyke a young fawne that late hath lost the hynd, And seeke each where, where last I sawe her face, Whose ymage yet I carry fresh in mynd. I seeke the fields with her late footing synd, I seeke her bowre with her late presence deckt, Yet nor in field nor bowre I her can fynd; Yet field and bowre are full of her aspect. But when myne eyes I therunto direct, They ydly back returne to me agayne, And when I hope to see theyr trew object, I fynd my selfe but fed with fancies vayne. Ceasse then, myne eyes, to seeke her selfe to see, And let my thoughts behold her selfe in mee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPIRIT OF '76 by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE MAN WITH THE HOE'; A REPLY by JOHN VANCE CHENEY RED JACKET by FITZ-GREENE HALLECK THE COMET AT YELL'HAM by THOMAS HARDY TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME by ROBERT HERRICK |