Classic Poem

Thou solitarie Mountaine, Mount of Mone ,
Pleasing to me, mine only solace chiefe,
How like are we? we two seeme but as One,
Since thou shewst sad , and I still, to have Griefe ,
 Thou with wilde savadge Woods art compast round,
 And in my Breast sharp austere Thoughts are found.

The huger Hill in bignes thou dost show,
The more, (All) thee uncouth and savadge deeme:
The more that I in yeares in Love do grow,
The more deformed Creature I do seeme.
 Water from thee, from every side doth come,
 And teares from out mine eyes as Fountaines run.

Thou dost abide the blustring furious winde,
The paine of skalding sighs perforce I feele:
Tempests and stormes, to thee are oft unkinde,
But worse to me is ALBAS Hart of steele:
 Thou strooken art by Joves fire from above,
 And I am blasted with Lightning of Love .

Thou wantest Fruit, and I am without Hart,
Only in this my Griefes do thine exceede,
That where as thou insensible still art,
I (living) feele too well the Brunt indeede.
 Yet wert thou worse I like in thee to stay,
 Since that my Pearle , mine ALBA'S gone her way.