now reeking wet with steamy flood.

Yon glorious Sun, the greater light,
the "Bridegroom" of the royal Lyre,
A flaming, boiling, bursting mine;
a grim black orb of whirling fire:

That gentle Moon, the lesser light,
the Lover's lamp, the Swain's delight,
A ruined world, a globe burnt out,
a corpse upon the road of night.

What reckt he, say, of Good or Ill
who in the hill-hole made his lair,
The blood-fed rav'ening Beast of prey,
wilder than wildest wolf or bear?

How long in Man's pre-Ad'amite days
to feed and swill, to sleep and breed,
Were the Brute-biped's only life,
a perfect life sans Code or Creed?

His choicest garb a shaggy fell,
his choicest tool a flake of stone;
His best of orn'aments tattoo'd skin
and holes to hang his bits of bone;

Who fought for female as for food
when Mays awoke to warm desire;
And such the Lust that grew to Love