Illuminate, betrothèd sun, thy cryptic will so dear.
Which, when pressed into our modest orb,
Courts us mild as a dove, or absolves
Our reign—throne and sceptre, far and near?
Who drowses by the thousands, and inveigles with a sneer?
Art thou a revolving truth? A new and ancient terror?
Wilt thou evermore bestow your wearers
This gravid lot, cast upon unwitting peers?
Thy shine’s enworlded in our mortal glume
and without, toward firmament, expired.
Betray thyself, intended flame, before we get a room
That we may at least know what dowry you require
Whose demands, when paid in full, repeal
Unspoken vows, and conceive a chance to heal.