What ails the face
of the sun,
that its smiley countenance
doth suddenly change?
Why should it run
away which slays darkness' rage?

Clouds of sadness stroll
across the surface of the big ball:
dull substance of despondent sigh.

Unshealth at once
the ray of thy glittering sword, spare
nay thine eternal skill.
Contend and combat:
fight with zest and zeal

For weak and tired and weary,
at night,
shalt thou eventually be;
when with faded
you bid the day, goodbye.