The Chase

The Moon, all silver-bright,

And he all gold, to match her-

When will that stallion, called the Sun,

Come near enough to catch her?

With time to spare, and love to waste,

What years and years of fire and haste!

When his bright eye grows cold and dim,

His nostrils blow less fire-

Will he, the shadow of himself,

Pursue her with the old desire?

When Earth has not one living eye-

What ghostly horse shall course the sky?