by William Collins

When Phœbe form’d a wanton smile,
  My soul! it reach’d not here:
Strange, that thy peace, thou trembler, flies
  Before a rising tear!
From ’midst the drops, my love is born,
  That o’er those eyelids rove:
Thus issued from a teeming wave
  The fabled queen of love.

Monadnock Valley Press > Collins