The proud giant of the garden race, Who, madly rushing to the suns embrace, Oertops her fellows with aspiring aim, Demands his wedded love, and bears his name. Churchill.Gotham, Book I.
But one, the lofty follower of the sun, Sad when he sets, shuts up her yellow leaves, Drooping all night; and when he warm returns, Points her enamourd bosom to his ray. Thomson.Summer, Line 216.