... The Sun is ruddy, strong, and hale:

The moon is sickly, wan, and pale.

Methinks ’twas ne’er in story told

That silver had the worth of gold!

The moon, a slave, is bowed and bent,

She knows her light is only lent,

She hurries on, the way to clear,

Till the Great Shah himself appear.

From “The Rose Garden of Persia.” [↑]