There figs sky-dy'd, a purple hue disclose,
Green looks the olive, the pomegranate grows,
There dangling pears exalting scents unfold,
And yellow apples ripen into gold:
The fruit he strives to seize, but blasts arise,
Toss it on high, and whirl it to the skies.
I turned my eye, and, as I turned, surveyed
A mournful vision! the Sisyphian shade;
With many a weary step, and many a groan,
Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone;