I am jet black, as you may see,
The son of pitch and gloomy night;
Yet all who know me will agree
I’m dead, except I live in light.
Sometimes in panegyric high,
Like lofty Pindar, I can soar,
And raise a virgin to the sky,
Or her to a * * * * *
My blood this day is very sweet,
To-morrow of a bitter juice;