The other two, slight air and purging
fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide;
The first my thought, the other my
desire,
These present-absent with swift motion
slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life, being made of four, with two
alone
Sinks down to death, oppress'd with
melancholy;
Until life's composition be recured
By those swift messengers return'd from
thee,
Who even but now come back again,
assured
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:
This told, I joy; but then no longer
glad,
I send them back again and straight
grow sad.
View all
Shakespeare's Sonnets:
