Classic Poem

When men shall finde thy flower, thy glory passe,
And thou with carefull brow sitting alone
Received hast this message from thy glasse,
That tells the truth, and saies that all is gone;
Fresh shalt thou see in mee the wounds thou madest,
Though spent thy flame, in mee the heate remaining:
I that have lov'd thee thus before thou fadest,
My faith shall waxe, when thou art in thy waining
The world shall finde this myracle in mee,
That fire can burne, when all the matter's spent:
Then what my faith hath beene thy selfe shalt see,
And that thou wast unkind thou maist repent.
Thou maist repent that thou hast scorn'd my teares,
When winter snowes upon thy golden haires.