Classic Poem

Unhappy I, in whom no joy appears,
And but for sorrow of all else forlorn;
Mishaps increasing faster than my years,
As I to grieve and die were only born.
Dark sullen night is my too tedious day;
In it I labour when all others rest,
And wear in discontent those hours away,
Which make some less deserving greater blest.
The rose-cheek'd morn I hate, because it brings
A sad remembrance of my fairer fair,
From whose dear grave arise continual springs,
Whose misty vapours cloud the lightsome air.
And only now I to my love prefer
Those clouds which shed their rain, and weep for her.