Classic Poem

The sun hath twice brought forth the tender green
And clad the earth in lively lustiness,
Once have the winds the trees despoiled clean,
And once again begins their cruelness,
Since I have hid under my breast the harm
That never shall recover healthfulness.
The winter's hurt recovers with the warm;
The parched green restored is with shade;
What warmth, alas, may serve for to disarm
The frozen heart, that mine inflame hath made?
What cold again is able to restore
My fresh green years, that wither thus and fade?
Alas, I see nothing hath hurt so sore
But Time, in time, reduceth a return:
Yet Time my harm increaseth more and more,
And seems to have my cure always in scorn.
Strange kind of death in life that I do try,
At hand to melt, far off in flame to burn,
And like as time list to my cure apply,
So doth each place my comfort clean refuse.
Each thing alive that sees the heaven with eye
With cloak of night may cover and excuse
Himself from travail of the day's unrest,
Save I, alas! against all others use,
That then stir up the torment of my breast
To curse each star as causer of my fate.
And when the sun hath eke the dark represt,
And brought the day, it doth nothing abate
The travail of mine endless smart and pain;
For then, as one that hath the light in hate,
I wish for night, more covertly to plain;
And me withdraw from every haunted place,
Lest in my chere my chance appear too plain.
And in my mind I measure, pace by pace,
To seek the place where I myself had lost,
That day that I was tangled in that lace,
In seeming slack, that knitteth ever most.
But never yet the travail of my thought
Of better state could catch a cause to boast,
For if I found, some time that I have sought,
Those stars by whom I trusted of the port,
My sails do fall, and I advance right nought;
As anchor'd fast my spirits do all resort
To stand at gaze, and sink in more and more
The deadly harm which she doth take in sport.
Lo, if I seek, how I do find my sore!
And if I fly, I carry with me still
The venomed shaft, which doth his force restore
By haste of flight. And I may plain my fill
Unto myself, unless this careful song
Print in your heart some parcel of my tene:
For I, alas, in silence all too long,
Of mine old hurt yet feel the wound but green.
Rue on my life; or else your cruel wrong
Shall well appear and by my death be seen.