Classic Poem

Come, ye heavy states of night,
Do my father's spirit right.
Soundings baleful let me borrow,
Burdening my song with sorrow.
Come, sorrow, come, her eyes that sings
By thee are turned into springs.

Come, you virgins of the night,
That in dirges sad delight,
Choir my anthems. I do borrow
Gold nor pearl, but sounds of sorrow.
Come, sorrow, come, her eyes that sings
By thee are turned into springs.