Classic Poem

CLXIII

Plain ye, mine eyes. Accompany my heart
For, by your fault, lo, here is death at hand.
Ye brought him first into this bitter band
And of his harm as yet ye felt no part.
But now ye shall. Lo, here begins your smart.
Wet shall ye be — ye shall it not withstand —
With weeping tears that shall make dim your sight;
And misty clouds shall hang still in your light.
Blame but yourselves that kindled have this brand
With such desire to strain that past your might.
But since by you the heart hath caught his harm,
His flamed heat shall sometime make ye warm.