Текст оригинала на английском языке
Sonnet 4. The Moon
Queen of the silver bow, by thy pale beam Alone and pensive I delight to stray, And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way. And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast; And oft I think, fair planet of the night, That in thy orb the wretched may have rest; The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go, Released by death, to thy benignant sphere; And the sad children of despair and woe, Forget in thee, their cup of sorrow here. Oh, that I soon may reach thy world serene, Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene.
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