Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE LASHES OUT AGAINST THE LAUREL

The perfect tree I loved so many years,
Before her golden boughs disdained my suit,
Encouraged my meek blossom into fruit
Beneath her shade, disturbed by anxious tears.
But now, my soul secure from all such fears,
She turns to cruel wood in branch and root:
And all my thoughts to one sad purpose put,
Must still address their grief to heedless ears.
What can he say, the windy fool of love,
Infatuated by new rhymes with hope,
Who for that laurel has lost all — but this?
May poet never pluck of her, nor Jove
Protect her leaves; but may she burn and grope
For shadow, withering in the sun's hot kiss!