And so the strife goes on from age to age,
In ceaseless round of victory and defeat:
Young Day comes forth, sun-clad, with shining feet,
In beauteous pomp, and throws his battle-gage.
Grim ancient Night, distraught and blind with rage,
Twanging her dreadful bow, flies in retreat,
Wrapt round with raven darkness as a sheet,
Till from the east she may the duel wage.
So Night, pursuing wounded Day, takes breath
To find his blood-stained mantle in the west,
And dusks it o'er with plumëd shafts of death.
Secure beneath the horizon's verge, in wrath
He wings a Parthian arrow back his path,
And dyes with crimson Ethiop's jeweled vest.