Classic Poem

O fly my soul, what hangs upon
thy drooping wings,
And weighes them down,
With love of gaudy mortall things?
The Sun is now i' th' East, each shade
as he doth rise,
is shorter made,
That Earth may lessen to our eyes:
Oh be not careless then, and play
until the Star of peace
Hide all his beames in dark recess;
Poor Pilgrims needs must lose their way,
When all the shadowes do encrease.