Classic Poem

O, I could weep myself into a stream,
Making eternal fountains of mine eyes;
Would that the ancient mythologic dream,
Were true, that peopled earth with deities,
Then might some God, compassioning my cries,
Turn me into an ever-weeping rill,
Or bend me to a willow that with sighs
The very region of the vale doth fill.
For I have woes too mighty for such tears,
As these I shed, but am compelled to hide;
Their burning bitterness mine eyeballs sears,
And I am forced to drink the scalding tide;
Lest the orbs melt to brine, and leave me more
Desolate and darkly-fortuned than before.