Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain.
As I saw fair Chloris walk alone, The feather'd snow came softly down, As Jove, descending from his tow'r To court her in a silver show'r. The wanton snow flew to her breast, As little birds into their nest; But o'ercome with whiteness there, For grief dissolv'd into a tear. Thence falling on her garment hem, To deck her, froze into a gem.
Where round some mould'ring tow'r pale ivy creeps, And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deepsAlexander Pope