Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch:
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;
For if it see the rud’st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed’st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night:
The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.
In plain English
Since you've been gone, my eyes see nothing as they really are. My physical sight still moves me around the world, but it's half-blind—it looks like it's working, but it doesn't register anything properly.
Nothing I see gets through to my heart. Birds, flowers, any shape my eyes land on—my mind doesn't process them. My eyes catch things, but nothing sticks; nothing holds.
Whether I see something beautiful or ugly, something sweet or grotesque, a mountain or the sea, daylight or darkness, a crow or a dove—my mind transforms it all into your image. I'm so full of you that I'm incapable of seeing anything else. My true mind, locked on you, makes my sight betray what's actually there.
