Its own; ’tis but reflection of the fire that’s hot.
A window or a house with light may be suffused;
But still, the source of light is in the sun, diffused.35
Each wall, each gate, may cry amain: “I shine! I shine!
I have no need of other’s light. ’Tis mine! ’Tis mine!”
But then the sun demurs: “O thing of little sense!
So soon as I shall set, thy darkness will be dense!”
The plants may think their verdure’s all their very own.
So fresh, so green; so pleasant every flower full-blown.
But then again the summer season makes comment: