Classic Poem

Unseene, unknowne, I here alone complaine
To Rocks, to Hills, to Meadowes, and to Springs,
Which can no helpe returne to ease my paine,
But back my sorrowes the sad Eccho brings.
Thus still encreasing are my woes to me,
Doubly resounded by that monefull voice,
Which seemes to second me in miserie,
And answere gives like friend of mine owne choice.
Thus onely she doth my companion prove,
The others silently doe offer ease:
But those that grieve, a grieving note doe love;
Pleasures to dying eies bring but disease:
And such am I, who daily ending live,
Wayling a state which can no comfort give.