Nikdy Takym Zare šarlatowa
The morning beaming on the flowery beds,
Whose gems give back its beauty, light and grace,
Is far less lovely than thy lovely face —
Where Lada all her rays of radiance spreads.
The chaste but glowing pencil of the spring,
Which paints the may-rose, has no tint to give
So fair as these thy sweet lips' colouring,
With ever-living smiles that round them live.
The bending of thy beauteous arms is fairer
Than the gold strings of the musician's bow,
So magical: — to what shall I compare her!
To fable's dreams? O no! for here a rarer
And a diviner model I can show —
A foot whose touch moves not the sands below.
Whose gems give back its beauty, light and grace,
Is far less lovely than thy lovely face —
Where Lada all her rays of radiance spreads.
The chaste but glowing pencil of the spring,
Which paints the may-rose, has no tint to give
So fair as these thy sweet lips' colouring,
With ever-living smiles that round them live.
The bending of thy beauteous arms is fairer
Than the gold strings of the musician's bow,
So magical: — to what shall I compare her!
To fable's dreams? O no! for here a rarer
And a diviner model I can show —
A foot whose touch moves not the sands below.
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