They Tried To Get Me-i Got Them

I Think On Death As The Apparent End Of The Illusions That Encompass Us. They All Have A Sudden And Unexpected End, That Challenges Any Faith We Have Pinned To Their Worth.

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.

This Is The Sin Against The Holy Ghost: - To Speak Of Bloody Power As Right Divine, And Call On God To Guard Each Vile Chief's House, And For Such Chiefs, Turn Men To Wolves And Swine.

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.