Classic Poem

WHEREIN PASSION INCREASETH WITH THE YEARS AND REMEDY IS NONE

If, of this fourteenth year of sighs, the end
And middle match the opening, then the air
Cannot sustain me, shade cannot defend,
So mount the fiery passions everywhere:
For Love, with whom I cannot half contend,
Beneath whose harness I must breathe despair,
So rides me through these eyes, which I expend
To mine own grief, little remains to spare.
Thus, day by day, I feel my spirits fail,
And yet so secretly that none may guess
But she whose glance dissolves my very soul.
Scarcely till now I bear my lifelessness,
Nor know how long her sojourn will prevail,
For life runs as death's crimson chariots roll.