There's a slim virgin moon swaying low at her side,
But the frost at her heart is not meet for a bride,
The bride o' the sun.
There are stars in her train, but they pale to the least,
When open the light-shedding doors of the East
To the bride o' the sun.
Lo he cometh, the bridegroom, in garments of gold,
And his glances are flashing, bright, beauteous, bold,
On the bride o' the sun;—
Till her heart it leaps up, like flame unto flame,