Classic Poem

Whilom in the winter's rage
A palmer old and full of age,
Sat and thought upon his youth,
With eyes, tears, and heart's ruth,
Being all with cares y-blent,
When he thought on years mis-spent
When his follies came to mind,
How fond love had made him blind,
And wrapp'd him in a field of woes,
Shadowed with pleasure's shows,
Then he sigh'd and said, “Alas!
Man is sin, and flesh is grass.”
I thought my mistress' hair were gold,
And in their locks my heart I fold;
Her amber tresses were the sight
That wrapp'd me in vain delight:
Her ivory front, her pretty chin,
Were stales that drew me on to sin;
Her starry looks, her crystal eyes,
Brighter than the sun's arise,
Sparkling pleasing flames of fire,
Yok'd my thoughts and my desire,
That I 'gan cry ere I blin,
“Oh! her eyes are paths to sin!”
Her face was faire, her breath was sweet,
All her looks for love were met:
But love is folly, this I know,
And beauty fadeth like to snow.
Oh! why should man delight in pride,
Whose blossom like a dew doth glide?
When these supposes touch'd my thought,
That world was vain and beauty nought,
I 'gan sigh and say, “Alas!
Man is sin and flesh is grass!”