Classic Poem

Some for their Forms I have desir'd,
And others for their Wit admir'd;
Yet, Fair-one, I can truly vow,
I never, never lov'd till now.
No Language can describe the Pain,
Which in your Absence I sustain;
Or paint the rapturous Delight,
Which swells my Bosom at your Sight.
So when the golden Sun declines,
Sad Heliotrope her Head declines;
But quickens with his vital Ray,
And spreads her Beauties to the Day.