But where is the dim light duskily gliding,
On her eagle wings from thy face?
Where now is darkness abiding?
In what cave do bright stars end their race—
When fast, on their faded steps bending,
Like a hunter you rush through the sky,
Up those lone lofty mountains ascending,
While down yon far summits they fly?
Pleasant thy path is, Great Lustre, wide-gleaming,
Dispelling the storm with thy rays;