Sonnet Cxxxvi:

Except these flights of song, I nothing have, As consolation for thy absence, Dear; Nothing to stop the wanderings of the tear That still my troubled countenance will lave. But what device, however strong and brave, Strings up my soul against besieging fear, Like thy light laugh, as welcome and as clear As summer sunlight to the purblind slave? What line as soft as thy bewildering hand Touching and fleeing? What imagined good Can fill the vacant place where thou hast stood? What fancy reach, and for an instant, stand Upon that summit where my dizzy blood Rose to thy kiss, and answered its demand?