Life Is A Loom, Weaving Illusion.

The Crooning Turns To A Sunrise Singing.

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

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.

Except The Christ Be Born Again Tonight In Dreams Of All Men, Saints And Sons Of Shame, The World Will Never See His Kingdom Bright.

Life Is A Loom, Weaving Illusion.