With my love, my love was born,
Like a flower that breaks the morn:
In the tempests she was lost,
By the fowling winds, when tossed
That each hour came darkly round
In the hour of glumness drowned.

Yet when time the fall requires,
When my heart in soft desires,
Grows wild when the sun sits low,
When the woods do weep in woe;
Then I think how fair the ground
In my love each day is found.

With my love, I know my fate;
With her, I find my soul is great.

• Sir Philip Sidney