Sunday Sonnet: Come, darkest night by Lady Mary Wroth

Lady Mary Wroth 1587-1652

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-ful 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 vade
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