Classic Poem

Then deem'd I to that damosel:
“Let not my Lord be wroth with me,
if wildly I rave, rushing in speech,
my heart with mourning all was torn.
As welling water goeth from well,
I yield me to His mercy aye.
Rebuke me ne'er with cruel words,
my dear adored, e'en though I stray;
but show me kindly comforting,
piteously thinking upon this,—
of care and me thou madest accord,
that wast of all my bliss the ground