The Crooning Turns To A Sunrise Singing.

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

Oh, I Have Walked In Kansas Through Many A Harvest Field, And Piled The Sheaves Of Glory There And Down The Wild Rows Reeled: Each Sheaf A Little Yellow Sun, A Heap Of Hot-rayed Gold; Each Binder Like Creation's Hand To Mold Suns, As Of Old.

You Can't Crush Ideas By Suppressing Them. You Can Only Crush Them By Ignoring Them.

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.