acrostic poem

i am dying
melancholy days have come
therefore i may not
i love the old melodious lays
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
your body's motion is like music
when i looked into your eyes
up from the meadows rich with corn
and how could you dream of meeting
this is the arsenal
in halls of sleep you wandered by
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
up from the south at break of day
all down the years