Classic Poem

O shady vales, O fair enrichëd meads,
O sacred woods, sweet fields, and rising mountains,
O painted flowers, green herbs, where Flora treads
Refreshed by wanton winds and watery fountains;
O all you wingëd quiristers of wood
That, perched aloft, your former pains report,
And straight again recount with pleasant mood
Your present joys in sweet and seemly sort;
O all you creatures whosoever thrive
On mother earth, in seas, by air or fire,
More blessed are you than I here under sun:
Love dies in me whenas he doth revive
In you; I perish under Beauty's ire
Where after storms, winds, frosts, your life is won.