Classic Poem

Ther with, when he was ware and gan beholde
How shet was every window of the place,
As frost, him thoughte, his herte gan to colde;
For which with chaunged dedlich pale face,
Withouten word, he forthby gan to pace;
And, as God wolde, he gan so faste ride
That no wight of his contenaunce espide.

Then saide he thus: " O palais desolat,
O hous, of houses whilom best y-hight,
O palais empty and disconsolat,
O thou lanterne of which queint is the light,
O palais, whilom day, that now art night,
Wel oughtest thou to falle, and I to dye,
Sin she is went that wont was us to gye!

" O palais, whilom crowne of houses alle,
Enlumined with sunne of alle blisse!
O ring, fro which the ruby is out falle,
O cause of wo, that cause hast been of lisse!
Yet, sin I may no bet, fain wolde I kisse
Thy colde dores, dorste I for this route;
And farewel shrine of which the saint is oute!"