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| The Sun |
| Circa 1925 |
Rise red sun, and crimson tint the skies.
With thy scarlet mantle thou has died,
In the dying blood of night that’s gone
And flown before the dawn.
Oh sun, the morn has cried,
In tears of natures sorrow, and all for thee
The meadows sward is swathed in tears of dewdrops
Come, sanctify them all before the day
Will in its thirst, consume the new drops
Of a christened morn.
Oh, great red sun, what kingdom e'er exceeding
In thy torrid glory, far above this ethereal sphere
Of human animation, bright rays that always,
Kiss the shadowed world to wake from sleep revere,
And so thou art a kingdom, yet without thee it would bring
This world to devastation.
Sink red sun, droop not thy fiery head
As if t'were weary, or vanquished in the bout
Of heats existence, but shed before you set,
Once more your crimson flame, and then to pass without,
The portals of your western heaven, and so farewell.
I bid you slumber not too well
Upon thy clouded pillow, else thou might
Forget the dawn of coming day, and leave still with night,
And dark displeasure.
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