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