Sonnet CXXXVI:
Except these flights of song, I nothing have,
As consolation for thy absence, Dear;
Nothing to stop the wanderings of the tear
That still my troubled countenance will lave.
But what device, however strong and brave,
Strings up my soul against besieging fear,
Like thy light laugh, as welcome and as clear
As summer sunlight to the purblind slave?
What line as soft as thy bewildering hand
Touching and fleeing? What imagined good
Can fill the vacant place where thou hast stood?
What fancy reach, and for an instant, stand
Upon that summit where my dizzy blood
Rose to thy kiss, and answered its demand?
