Classic Poem

It is the evening hour,
How silent all doth lie,
The hornèd moon he shews his face
In the river with the sky.
Just by the path on which we pass,
The flaggy lake lies still as glass.

Spirit of her I love,
Whispering to me,
Stories of sweet visions, as I rove,
Here stop, and crop with me
Sweet flowers that in the still hour grew,
We'll take them home, nor shake off the bright dew.

Part of my life, the loathed part to me,
Lives to impart my weary clay some breath.
But that good part, wherein all comforts be,
Now dead, doth shew departure is a death.
Yea worse than death, death parts both woe and joy,
From joy I part still living in annoy.