Classic Poem

The heat is past that did me fret,
The fire is out that nature wrought;
The plants of love, which youth did set,
Are dry and dead within my thought:
The frost hath killed the kindly sap
Which kept the heart in lively state;
The sudden storms and thunder clap
Hath turnëd love to mortal hate.

The mist is gone that bleared mine eyes,
The louring clouds I see appear:
Although the blind eats many flies,
I would she knew my sight is clear.
Her sweet, deceiving, flattering face
Did make me think the crow was white:
I must how she had such a grace
To seem a hawk, and be a kite.