Sonnet 21

There were the days of bitter silent thought The moon summoned up sadness in the past The white wave sighed the far heart that I sought And being also yellow by time’s waste Then I poured a pain that forget to flow For precious love not the treasure of night And weep a boundless long miss moldy woe, Moaning about you by a vanish’d sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er The sad account of a fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.