I sing thee with the stock-dove's throat,
Warm, crooning, superstitious note,
That on its dearie so doth dote
It falls to sorrow,
And from the fair, white swans afloat
A dirge must borrow.

In thee I have such deep content,
I can but murmur a lament;
It is as though my heart were rent
By thy perfection,
And all my passion's torrent spent
In recollection.