For I am piteous and forlorn,
As is the bird that haunts the night;
Who inconsolably doth mourn
Whene’er his rose is from his sight.
O’er earth and ocean, everywhere
I gaze in vain, with weary eyes.
Oh that the wind might waft me there
Where my belovèd's vineyard lies!
Oh that I were the zephyr fleet
That bends her vines and roses sweet.