Eách dawn ís a dáy withóut her,                                        Gone, gone, gone! the star that shone,


And yét she gáve me éyes to sée that dáwn.            Or is it there at horizon’s edge?


How! Tired am I of going on,                                          What are the cracks wherein they wedge,


These years that I’ve not thought about her.                       These doubts on me I find have grown.




Where is the star that shone so bright,
That gave me life and light and love?
And áll good thíngs I cán think óf,
And never gave a hint of night?








Apotheosis of all virtue,
The sun!  ‘Tis not itself that star?
 Close to hand, be ‘t near or far,
Bleaching all that may besmirch you.








The sun, it is the noontime star:
Scorching sometimes, even dazzling,
At its zenith, fiery, frazzling;
Bade Icarus not mount the bar.




The sun, it is th’ afternoon star:


To rise, unquenched, again with rest,


Every day it plunges west;


Poseidon knows the course’s par.




The sun, it is the evening star:
It shines, still in a sky so changéd,
As dark for light, as if derangéd;
E’en Zeus himself could wander far.




The sun, it is the midnight star:
Shining steady without fault;
Risen into heaven’s vault,
Athena’s owl knows who we are:




Faster than mere mortals carry it,
The everlasting morning star
Crosses the sky; and from the car
Apollo drives his brilliant chariot.