1 Dost thou know, my world is but a candle?:
2 A flicker of fragile flame who fights to exist.
3 And that which blow faster than flame can handle,
4 Oft extinguish that light which fights to persist.
5 When thou depart, it takes its knavish shape:
6 That wind to end put my refulgent state.
7 Desolate left am I, lachrymose, bereft-
8 By wind whose breath is malice deft.
9 Dost thou know, thy presence make seasons?
10 To be here, thou cajoles the earth into spring,
11 Whilst thy absence winter use as its reason
12 And the ears of earth to thy migration cling.
13 And I, but a candle, am season subject,
14 So thy absence the weather badly infect,
15 To with winter and wind, flame extirpate
16 And with distance destroy my mirthful state.