Look Not Too Long In The Face Of The Fire, O Man! Never Dream With Thy Hand On The Helm! Turn Not Thy Back To The Compass; Accept The First Hint Of The Hitching Tiller; Believe Not The Artificial Fire, When Its Redness Makes All Things Look Ghastly. To-morrow, In The Natural Sun, The Skies Will Be Bright; Those Who Glared Like Devils In The Forking Flames, The Morn Will Show In Far Other, At Least Gentler, Relief; The Glorious, Golden, Glad Sun, The Only True Lamp—all Others But Liars!
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Look Not Too Long In The Face
Moby
Look Not Too Long In The Face Of The Fire, O Man! Never Dream With Thy Hand On The Helm! Turn Not Thy Back To The Compass; Accept The First Hint Of The Hitching Tiller; Believe Not The Artificial Fire, When Its Redness Makes All Things Look Ghastly. To-morrow, In The Natural Sun, The Skies Will Be Bright; Those Who Glared Like Devils In The Forking Flames, The Morn Will Show In Far Other, At Least Gentler, Relief; The Glorious, Golden, Glad Sun, The Only True Lamp—all Others But Liars!
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