Since they saw one another last—
That what was youth was wrinkled age,
Sere, hoary, palsied, trembling age:
The very babe, so great the charm,
Grew gray upon its mother’s arm.
Suddenly, on the gloom of night,
Leaving a trail of silvery light,
Six coursers, with disheveled hair,
Swept madly through the fields of air.
Their argent manes, in separate threads,