I find my joys are slightly muted by
Her absence; every moment that I spend
Apart from her, my soul emits a sigh
For lack of such a love and such a friend.
It does not mean I do not like to be
The place I am, or that I cannot find
A shred of happiness; but that, to me,
The pleasure that I have comes to a mind
That is in shadow: what is there is seen
Only at the edges, not in light.
It does not make my pleasure small, or mean,
But merely darker, as in constant night.
She is my sun, and lacking her, light fails
And without that, what lamp of joy prevails?
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