LETTER LXIII. On Absence

Dear to my Soul, while thou'rt away, I rather pass, than spend the Day; Thy Absence clips the Wings of Time, And every Clock forgets to chime. With thee, L'Allegro is my Song, Il Penseroso tunes my Tongue. When thou art gone—The midnight Masque, The wanton Dance, and sprightly Flask, The joyous Friends, and flowing Bowl, Have lost the Power to warm my Soul: But, like Prometheus' Man of Clay, Ere he had felt the solar Ray, I stand unmov'd, and wait, in dull Suspense, Thy heav'nly Charms to warm me into Sense.