Classic Poem

Like to the garden's eye, the flower of flow'rs
With purple pompe that dazle doth the sight,
Or as among the lesser gems of night,
The usher of the planet of the houres,
Sweet maid, thou shinedst on this world of ours,
Of all perfections having trac'd the hight:
Thine outward frame was faire, faire inward powers,
A saphire lanthorne, and an incense light.
Hence, the enamour'd heaven, as too too good
On earth's all-thorny soyle long to abide,
Transplanted to their fields so rare a bud,
Where from thy sun no cloud thee now can hide.
Earth moan'd her losse, and wish'd shee had the grace
Not to have known, or known thee longer space.