Classic Poem

She is gone, she is lost, she is found, she is ever fair:
Sorrow draws weakly where love draws not too:
Woe's cries sound nothing, but only in love's ear:
Do then by dying what life cannot do. . . .
Unfold thy flocks and leave them to the fields,
To feed on hills or dales where likes them best
Of what the summer or the spring-time yields,
For love and time hath given thee leave to rest.
Thy heart which was their fold, now in decay
By often storms and winter's many blasts,
All torn and rent becomes misfortune's prey;
False hope, my shepherd's staff, now age hath brast.
My pipe, which love's own hand gave my desire
To sing her praises and my woe upon,
Despair hath often threatened to the fire
As vain to keep now all the rest are gone.
Thus home I draw, as death's long night draws on,
Yet, every foot, old thoughts turn back mine eyes;
Constraint me guides, as old age draws a stone
Against the hill, which over-weighty lies
For feeble arms or wasted strength to move:
My steps are backward, gazing on my loss—
My mind's affection and my soul's sole love,
Not mixed with fancy's chaff or fortune's dross.
To God I leave it, who first gave it me,
And I her gave, and she returned again
As it was hers; so let his mercies be
Of my last comforts the essential mean.

But be it so or not, the effects are past:
Her love hath end; my woe must ever last.