  And so the strife goes on from age to age, In ceaseless round of victory and defeat: Young Day comes forth, sun-clad, with shining feet, In beauteous pomp, and throws his battle-gage. Grim ancient Night, distraught and blind with rage, Twanging her dreadful bow, flies in retreat, Wrapt round with raven darkness as a sheet, Till from the east she may the duel wage. So Night, pursuing wounded Day, takes breath To find his blood-stained mantle in the west, And dusks it o'er with plumËd shafts of death. Secure beneath the horizon's verge, in wrath He wings a Parthian arrow back his path, And dyes with crimson Ethiop's jeweled vest. |
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