Classic Poem

Die, die, my soule, and never taste of joy,
If sighes, not teares, nor vowes, nor prayers can move,
If fayth and zeale be but esteemd a toy,
And kindnes, be unkindnes in my love.

Then with unkindnes, Love revenge thy wrong,
O sweet'st revenge that ere the heavens gave,
And with the Swan record thy dying song,
And praise her still to thy untimely grave.

So in loves death shall loves perfection prove,
That love divine which I have borne to you,
By doome concealed to the heavens above,
That yet the world unworthy never knewe,
Whose pure Idea never tongue exprest,
I feele, you know, the heavens can tell the rest.