Classic Poem

1
Can you, the Author of our joy,
So soone depart?
Will you revive, and straight destroy,
New mirth to teares convert?
O that ever cause of gladnesse
Should so swiftly turne to sadnesse!
2

Now as we droupe, so will these flowers,
Bard of your sight,
Nothing availe them heav'nly showres
Without your heav'nly light.
When the glorious Sunne forsakes us,
Winter quickly over-takes us.
3

Yet shall our praiers your waies attend,
When you are gone;
And we the tedious time will spend,
Remembring you alone.
Welcome here shall you heare ever,
But the word of parting never.