Nature
doth have her dawn each day,
But mine are far
between;
Content, I cry, for sooth to say,
Mine brightest are I ween.
For
when my sun doth deign to rise,
Though it be her
noontide,
Her fairest field in shadow lies,
Nor can my light abide.
Sometimes
I bask me in her day,
Conversing with my mate,
But if we interchange one ray,
Forthwith her heats abate.
Through
his discourse I climb and see,
As from some eastern
hill,
A brighter morrow rise to me
Than lieth in her skill.
As
‘twere two summer days in one,
Two Sundays come together,
Our rays united make one Sun,
With fairest summer weather.