Classic Poem

Open the door, who's there within?
The fairest of thy mother's kin.
O come, come, come abroad,
And hear the shrill birds sing,
The air with tunes that load.
It is too soon to go to rest,
The sun not midway yet to west.
The day doth miss thee,
And will not part
Until it kiss thee.

Were I as fair as you pretend,
Yet to an unknown seld-seen friend
I dare not ope the door.
To hear the sweet birds sing
Oft proves a dangerous thing.
The sun may run his wonted race,
And yet not gaze on my poor face.
The day may miss me;
Therefore depart,
You shall not kiss me.