Classic Poem

I

The Town is, like the Season, sad,
Since you, and your Bright Brother Sun,
Are at such Distance, with us, made,
We Chill'd, for want of Heat, are grown;
So, Nought but your Return sure, to us can,
Restore our Sense, and make us Live again;

II.

Our Winter's now severer grown,
Taking you from us out of Sight,
Than taking from our Eyes the Sun,
Less Chearful to us, and less Bright;
Your Coldness, Distance, shortens more our Days,
Than our Miss of the Sun's Reviving Rays;

III.

Rather than Freeze still, we wou'd Burn,
Rather than we wou'd undergo
Your Absence, wou'd have you Return,
T'enflame us, as you us'd to do;
Since it, in you, more Mercy wou'd appear,
To Kill with Love, than Save with Cold Despair;

IV.

We, like our Days, o'er-clouded are,
Now you, so far, are from us gone;
Our Short Days are, more tedious far,
By losing your Eyes, than the Sun;
Return then to us, your Eyes Brighter Rays,
You, tho' in Winter, will prolong our Days.