Light disastrous rising savage out of smoke inveterately;
Beast-black, the conflagration like a menacing shadow move
With voracious roaring southward, where aslant, insufferable,
The bright steeds careered their parched way down an arc of the firmament.
For the day grew like to thick night, and the orb was its beacon-fire,
And from hill to hill of darkness burst the day's apparition forth.
Lo, a wrestler, not a God, stood in the chariot ever lowering:
Lo, the shape of one who raced there to outstrip the legitimate hours:
Lo, the ravish'd beams of Phoebus dragg'd in shame at the chariot-wheels:
Light of days of happy pipings by the mead-singing rivulets!