Читать книгу English Poets of the Eighteenth Century - Various - Страница 45

What though in solemn silence all

Move round the dark terrestrial ball;

What though nor real voice nor sound

Amidst their radiant orbs be found?

In reason's ear they all rejoice,

And utter forth a glorious voice:

Forever singing as they shine,

'The hand that made us is divine.'