Thinking The Deed, And Not The Creed,

Autumn Arrives Like A Warrior With The Stain Of Blood Upon His Brazen Mail. His Crimson Scarf Is Rent. His Scarlet Banner Drips With Gore. His Step Is Like A Flail Upon The Threshing Floor.

The Story, From Beginning To End, I Found Again In A Heart Of A Friend.

The Course Of My Long Life Hath Reached At Last In Fragile Bark Over A Tempestuous Sea The Common Harbor, Where Must Rendered Be Account For All The Actions Of The Past.

Ah, The Souls Of Those That Die Are But Sunbeams Lifted Higher.

Out Of The Shadows Of Night The World Rolls Into Light.