And deems nought done while aught remains to do
Yamen beheld and wither'd at the sight;
Long had he aim'd the sunbeam to control,
For light was hateful to his soul:
"Go on," cried the hellish one, yellow with spite,
"Go on," cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen,
"Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca's queen,
I'll toil to undo every night."
Ye sons of song, rejoice!
Veeshnoo has still'd the jarring elements,