Factory Windows Are Always Brokenother

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.

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.

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

God Lead Us Past The Setting Of The Sun To Wizard Islands, Of August Surprise; God Make Our Blunders Wise.

The Crooning Turns To A Sunrise Singing.