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?

How long in Man’s pre-Ad’amite days to feed and swill, to sleep and breed, Were the Brute-biped’s only life, a perfect life sans Code or Creed?

His choicest garb a shaggy fell, his choicest tool a flake of stone; His best of orn’aments tattoo’d skin and holes to hang his bits of bone;