To Live In Mankind Is Far More

Change The Fabric Of Your Own Soul And Your Own Visions, And You Change All.

The Sun Is A Huntress Young, The Sun Is A Red, Red Joy, The Sun Is An Indian Girl, Of The Tribe Of The Illinois. The Sun Is A Smouldering Fire, That Creeps Through The High Gray Plain, And Leaves Not A Bush Of Cloud To Blossom With Flowers Of Rain. The Sun Is A Wounded Deer, That Treads Pale Grass In The Skies, Shaking His Golden Horns, Flashing His Baleful Eyes. The Sun Is An Eagle Old, There In The Windless West. Atop Of The Spirit-cliffs He Builds Him A Crimson Nest.

The Crooning Turns To A Sunrise Singing.

Life Is A Loom, Weaving Illusion.

Never Be A Cynic, Even A Gentle One. Never Help Out A Sneer, Even At The Devil.