Jonathan Swift (Джонатан Свифт)

On Snow

From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin,
No lady alive can show such a skin.
I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather,
But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together.
Though candour and truth in my aspect I bear,
Yet many poor creatures I help to ensnare.
Though so much of Heaven appears in my make,
The foulest impressions I easily take.
My parent and I produce one another,
The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother. 

1. Dean Swift at Sir Arthur Acheson’s, in the North of Ireland
2. Drapier’s Hill
3. At Holyhead
4. Verses on Blenheim
5. Mrs Frances Haris's Petition

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1870

Последние стихотворения

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