Classic Poem

Off with sleep, love, up from bed,
This fair morn;
See, for our eyes the rosy red
New dawn is born;
Now that skies are glad and gay
In this gracious month of May,
Love me, sweet;
Fill my joy in brimming measure;
In this world he hath no pleasure
That will none of it.

Come, love, through the woods of spring,
Come walk with me;
Listen, the sweet birds jargoning
From tree to tree.
List and listen, over all
Nightingale most musical
That ceases never;
Grief begone, and let us be
For a space as glad as he;
Time's flitting ever.

Old Time, that loves not lovers, wears
Wings swift in flight;
All our happy life he bears
Far in the night.
Old and wrinkled on a day,
Sad and weary shall you say,
" Ah, fool was I,
That took no pleasure in the grace
Of the flower that from my face
Time has seen die. "

Leave then sorrow, teen, and tears
Till we be old;
Young we are, and of our years
Till youth be cold.
Pluck the flower; while Spring is gay
In this happy month of May
Love me, love;
Fill our joy in brimming measure;
In this world he hath no pleasure
That will none thereof.