And, thou away, the very birds are mute.

"From you I have been absent in the Spring,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him:
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any Summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you; you pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it Winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play."

And I am scarcely less persuaded that a third cluster, of nine, had
the same source. These, too, are clearly concerned with the deeper
interests and regards of private life; they carry a homefelt energy
and pathos, such as argue them to have had a far other origin than in
trials of art; they speak of compelled absences from the object that
inspired them, and are charged with regrets and confessions, such as
could only have sprung from the Poet's own breast:

"Alas! 'tis true I have gone here and there,
And made myself a motley to the view;
Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of affections new:
Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth