Where have you hidden,
Beloved, and left me moaning?
you fled like the stag
after wounding me;
I went out calling you, but you were gone.

Shepherds, you who go up
through the sheepfolds to the hill,
if by chance you see him I love most,
tell him I am sick,
I suffer, and I die.

Seeking my Love
I will head for the mountains and for watersides,
I will not gather flowers,
nor fear wild beasts;
I will go beyond strong men and frontiers.

Saint John of the Cross
‘The Spiritual Canticle’