Sonnet Cclxxxi:

Hark! in that tone I heard my lady sigh, Sigh with the burden of some longing pain, Some dim half-thought, that will not come again; Less of a thought than of a feeling shy. And now she murmurs; ah! I know not, I, What thing she murmurs; why the lengthened strain Seems only to complain, and yet complain, Unless my absence grieved her widowed eye. Yes, yes, I love thee! If to answer this Awoke the challenge of that haughty string-- Love as a slave whose shackles are his bliss. What more? I listen.--Fie! thou fickle thing-- How the light treble with thy laugh doth ring, Rippling to silence in a fleeting kiss!