Sir John Suckling (1606-1642)
When, Dearest, I But Think of Thee
When, dearest I but think of thee,
Methinks all things that lovely be
Are present, and my soul delighted:
For beauties that from worth arise
Are like the grace of deities,
Still present with us, tho’ unsighted.
Thus while I sit and sigh the day
With all his borrow’d lights away,
Till night’s black wings do overtake me,
Thinking on thee, thy beauties then,
As sudden lights do sleepy men,
So they by their bright rays awake me.
Thus absence dies, and dying proves
No absence can subsist with loves
That do partake of fair perfection:
Since in the darkest night they may
By love’s quick motion find a way
To see each other by reflection.
The waving sea can with each flood
Bathe some high promont that hath stood
Far from the main up in the river:
O think not then but love can do
As much! for that’s an ocean too,
Which flows not every day, but ever!
Sir John Suckling's Other Poems
- A Doubt of Martyrdom
- A Supplement of an Imperfect Copy of Ver...
- I prithee send me back my heart
- I prithee spare me gentle boy
- If you refuse me once, and think again
- Love Turned to Hatred
- Out upon it, I have lov'd
- Sonnet I
- The Constant Lover
- When, Dearest, I But Think of Thee
- Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
- Why so Pale and Wan?
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.