Classic Poem

My body for chagrin No moment's rest doth know;
For dolour without end, My heart doth wasting go.

When mists of grief for her From heart to head ascend,
The dew of sorrow's rains Down from the eye doth flow.

My two eyes cannot brook To see my yellow cheek;
Wherefore with heart's blood o'er They daub it high and low;

Lest, if my face be seen Of those who wish me ill,
My cheek unto their gaze Should saffron-coloured show.

Ill fate to me, where'er Calamity there is,
Adorns it as a bride, To lure me to my woe.

Time ravished hath from me All that which once was mine,
Except the love of her, Which bideth evermo'.

How should mine eyes not weep? How should my soul not wail?
How should not patience less And sorrow greater grow?

What while Heav'n saw me glad, It measured all my joys;
But, now it giveth griefs, It meteth them not so.

Since that my bosom friend Is grown averse from me,
Alack! how should I look For pity from the foe?

If I bemoan me not, They say, “He needeth nought;”
And “Thistles,” if I do, “He chews;” they say, heigho!

Yet these things irk me not; For God Most High no door
Shutteth, excepting He Another open throw.