The selfsame sun that shines upon his court
Hides not bis visage from our cottage, but
Looks on alike.
In the warm shadow of her loveliness;—
He kissed her with his beams.
"But," quoth his neighbor, "when the sun
From East to West his course has run,
How comes it that he shows his face
Next morning in his former place?"
"Ho! there's a pretty question, truly!"
Replied our wight, with an unruly
Burst of laughter and delight,
So much his triumph seemed to please him.
"Why, blockhead! he goes back at night,
And that's the reason no one sees him!"
- * * Because as the sun reflecting upon
the wind of strands and shores is unpolluted
in its beams, so is God not dishonored when
we suppose him in every of his creatures, and
in every part of every one of them.
There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.
Written as with a sunbeam.
The sopped sun—toper as ever drank hard—
Stares foolish, hazed,
Rubicund, dazed,
Totty with thine October tankard.
You leave the setting to court the rising sun.
Sol crescentes decedens duplicat umbras.
The sun when setting makes the increasing shadows twice as large.
Fairest of all the lights above,
Thou sun, whose beams adorn the spheres,
And with unwearied swiftness move,
To form the circles of our years.
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
SUN DIAL MOTTOES
I go away and come again each day,
But thou shalt go away and ne'er return.
Vivite, ait, fugie.
Live ye, he says, I flee.
True as the needle to the pole,
Or as the dial to the sun.
True as the dial to the sun,
Although it be not shin'd upon.
Amende to-day and slack not,
Deythe cometh and warneth not,
Tyme passeth and speketh not.
"Horas non numero nisi serenas."
There stands in the garden of old St. Mark
A sun dial quaint and gray.
It takes no heed of the hours which in dark
Pass o'er it day by day.
It has stood for ages amid the flowers
In that land of sky and song.
"I number none but the cloudless hours,"
Its motto the live day long.
Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.
Give God thy heart, thy service, and thy gold;
The day wears on, and time is waxing old.
Our life's a flying shadow, God's the pole,
The index pointing at Him is our soul;
Death the horizon, when our sun is set,
Which will through Christ a resurrection get.
The night cometh when no man can work.
Thou breathing dial! since thy day began
The present hour was ever mark'd with shade.
A lumine motus.
I am moved by the light.
Horas non numero nisi serenas.
I count only the hours that are serene.
L'heure de la justice ne sonne pas
Aux cadrans de ce monde.
The hour of justice does not strike
On the dials of this world.
