When sorrow (using mine own fire's might) <br />Melts down his lead into my boiling breast; <br />Through that dark furnace to my heart oppress'd <br />There shines a joy from thee, my only light; <br /> <br />But soon as thought of thee breeds my delight, <br />And my young soul flutters to thee his nest, <br />Most rude despair, my daily unbidden guest, <br />Clips straight my wings, straight wraps me in his night, <br /> <br />And makes me then bow down my head and say, <br />'Ah, what doth Phoebus' gold that wretch avail <br />Whom iron doors do keep from use of day?' <br /> <br />So strangely (alas) thy works in me prevail, <br />That in my woes for thee thou art my joy, <br />And in my joys for thee my only annoy.<br /><br />Sir Philip Sidney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-108-when-sorrow/
