When, dearest I but think of thee, <br />Methinks all things that lovely be <br />Are present, and my soul delighted: <br />For beauties that from worth arise <br />Are like the grace of deities, <br />Still present with us, tho’ unsighted. <br /> <br />Thus while I sit and sigh the day <br />With all his borrow’d lights away, <br />Till night’s black wings do overtake me, <br />Thinking on thee, thy beauties then, <br />As sudden lights do sleepy men, <br />So they by their bright rays awake me. <br /> <br />Thus absence dies, and dying proves <br />No absence can subsist with loves <br />That do partake of fair perfection: <br />Since in the darkest night they may <br />By love’s quick motion find a way <br />To see each other by reflection. <br /> <br />The waving sea can with each flood <br />Bathe some high promont that hath stood <br />Far from the main up in the river: <br />O think not then but love can do <br />As much! for that’s an ocean too, <br />Which flows not every day, but ever!<br /><br />Sir John Suckling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-dearest-i-but-think-of-thee/
