Classic Poem

Summer will go: but you are beautiful.
Autumn will come too soon: but you are young.
The flowers are withering, the birds have sung,
But you are fair, to fair things dutiful.
Go not away: I shall be sorrowful.
The merle is desolate, her heart is wrung.
Go not away: the seed in me has sprung,
And in my heart, a springtide's morrowful.

Nay, you are going and your sails are set;
Going away, and no detaining you!
Parted, as soon as ever we had met —
And what of the precious hopes of gaining you?
Will there be only friendship to regret,
Or now to my breast must I be straining you!