Life Is A Loom, Weaving Illusion.

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.

Authors And Uncaptured Criminals Are The Only People Free From Routine.

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.

The Only Thing That A Man May Do That Is New, Is To Write Himself On Human Hearts.

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