Читать книгу Poetry - Alexander Pope - Страница 75

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1 While Celia's tears make sorrow bright,

Proud grief sits swelling in her eyes;

The sun, next those the fairest light,

Thus from the ocean first did rise:

And thus through mists we see the sun,

Which, else we durst not gaze upon.

2 These silver drops, like morning dew,

Foretell the fervour of the day:

So from one cloud soft showers we view,

And blasting lightnings burst away.

The stars that fall from Celia's eye,

Declare our doom in drawing nigh.

3 The baby in that sunny sphere

So like a Phaëton appears,

That Heaven, the threaten'd world to spare,

Thought fit to drown him in her tears:

Else might the ambitious nymph aspire,

To set, like him, Heaven too on fire.