Classic Poem

Early before the day doth spring
Let us awake, my Muse, and sing,
It is no time to slumber;
So many joys this time doth bring
As time will fail to number.

But whereto shall we bend our lays?
Even up to heaven, again to raise
The maid which, thence descended,
Hath brought again the golden days
And all the world amended.

Rudeness itself she doth refine,
E'en like an alchemist divine,
Gross times of iron turning
Into the purest form of gold,
Not to corrupt till heaven wax old,
And be refined with burning.