<i>(IN THE BEGINNING)</i>
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.
<i>(MID-MORNING)</i>
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.
<i>(NOON)</i>
The sun is a wounded deer,
That treads pale grass in the skies,
Shaking his golden horns,
Flashing his baleful eyes.
<i>(SUNSET)</i>
T he sun is an eagle old,
There in the windless west.
Atop of the spirit-cliffs
He builds him a crimson nest.
(Vachel Lindsay)
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