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To Myra O thou, whose tender serious eyes Expressive speak the mind I love; The gentle azure of the skies, The pensive shadows of the grove; O mix their beauteous beams with mine, And let us interchange our hearts; Let all their sweetness on me shine, Poured through my soul be all their darts. Ah! 'tis too much! I cannot bear At once so soft, so keen a ray: In pity then, my lovely fair, O turn those killing eyes away! But what avails it to conceal One charm, where nought but charms I see? Their lustre then again reveal, And let me, Myra, die of thee! James Thomson's other poems:
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |