Sonnet 19 - Come darkest night

Come darkest night, becoming sorrow best;

Light, leave thy light; fit for a lightsome soul;

Darkness doth truly suit with me oppressed,

Whom absence power doth from mirth control:

The very trees with hanging heads condole

Sweet summer's parting, and of leaves distressed

In dying colours make a grief-full role;

So much (alas) to sorrow are they pressed

Thus of dead leaves her farewell carpet's made;

Their fall, their branches, all their mournings prove;

With leafless, naked bodies, whose hues fade

From hopeful green, to wither in their love,

If trees, and leaves for absence, mourners be,

No marvel that I grieve, who like want see.