Lacking my love, I go from place to place,
Like a young fawn, that late hath lost the hind;
And seek each where, where last I saw her face,
Whose image yet I carry fresh in mind.
I seek the fields with her late footing signed;
I seek her bower with her late presence deck’d;
Yet nor in field nor bower I her can find;
Yet field and bower are full of her aspect:
But, when mine eyes I thereunto direct,
They idly back return to me again:
And, when I hope to see their true object,
I find myself but fed with fancies vain.
  Cease then, mine eyes, to seek herself to see;
  And let my thoughts behold herself in me.