I am not lonely, O my Love,
Save in so far I have not thee,
Without whose smile the changeful days
Are all alike to me.

Yet while the Winter blooms to Spring,
And Summer doth to Autumn wane,
I will not say their various wealth
Is lavished forth in vain.

Since Nature hath November days,
Wherein she broods on future flowers,
We may not put less noble use
To any time of ours.

Their own soft lights and tender glooms
To poet's eye and poet's ear,
Hath every feeling of the heart,
And season of the year.

Ah! pondering on the hours I gain,
And counting up the hours I lose,
I find them both so full of love,
I scarce know which to choose.

With thee the joy is almost pain,
And swift the days fleet by;
I find thee not in sight more dear,
Nor less in absence nigh.