See, Phoebus breaking from the willing skies, <br />See, how the soaring Lark, does with him rise, <br />And through the air, is such a journy borne <br />As if she never thought of a return. <br />Now, to his noon, behold him proudly goe, <br />And look with scorn, on all that's great below. <br />A Monark he, and ruler of the day, <br />A fav'rite She, that in his beams does play. <br />Glorious, and high, but shall they ever bee, <br />Glorious, and high, and fixt where now we see? <br />No, both must fall, nor can their stations keep, <br />She to the Earth, and he below the Deep, <br />At night both fall, but the swift hand of time <br />Renews the morning, and again they climb, <br />Then lett no cloudy change, create my sorrow, <br />I'll think 'tis night, and I may rise to-morrow.<br /><br />Anne Kingsmill Finch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/consolation-5/
