Classic Poem

The spheres are dull and do not make
Such music as mine ears will take.
The slighted birds may cease to sing,
Their chirpings do not grace the Spring:
The Nightingale is sad in vain,
I care not to hear her complain:
While I have ears and you a tongue,
I shall think all things else go wrong.

The poets feign'd that Orpheus could
Make stones to follow where he would;
They feign'd indeed, but (had they known
Your voice) a truth they might have shown.
All instruments most sadly go
Because your tongue excels them so:
While I have ears, and you a tongue,
I shall think all things else go wrong.