Light so deviously ta'en from the sun,
Dost thou steal all thy majestic glory?
What other unbelonging joys light thee?
What mortals have had love torn from their grasp
While beneath thy frore and mocking splendor?
How much of thine illuminance is made
Of pure illusion; of dead, shattered dreams?
Thy ghostly, wraith-like form haunts the sky,
As thou gaz'st down from thy dark throne of night.
But thy reign as sky king is limited,
Thy silver light has no comparison
With the brilliant radiance of the morn.
For now, ride on thy cloudy chariots,
Thy gray steeds with windswept hooves of thunder,
And mourn in thy lonely thieving of truth,
Ruling the dark thou rightfully owneth. Ω
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