They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek
That now are wild and do not remember
That sometime they put themselves in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range
Busily seeking with a continual change.
Thanked be fortune, it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better; but once in special,
In thin array after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small;
And therewithal sweetly did me kiss,
And softly said, Dear heart, how like you this?
It was no dream, I lay broad waking.
But all is turned thorough my gentleness
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go of her goodness
And she also to use newfangleness.
But since that I so kindely am served,
I would fain know what she hath deserved.
I'e always loved William Wyatt's gentle lament on the loss of his lover, his quizzical brokenhearted disquisition into the "strange fashion of forsaking". No real reason for posting it other than an evening of strange melancholy. May it find you softly entwined with one or the ones you love, whether with the ardor of passion, the sweet tenderness of friendship or under the great sheltering wings of parent and child.