Yon glorious Sun, the greater light,
the “Bridegroom” of the royal Lyre,
A flaming, boiling, bursting mine;
a grim black orb of whirling fire:
That gentle Moon, the lesser light,
the Lover’s lamp, the Swain’s delight,
A ruined world, a globe burnt out,
a corpse upon the road of night.
What reckt he, say, of Good or Ill
who in the hill-hole made his lair,
The blood-fed rav’ening Beast of prey,
wilder than wildest wolf or bear?