the wonderful sweetness
of the violin floats down
the hushed waters of dreams
the heart strings of the harp begin
to long in aching music spirit pined
in wafts that poignant sweetness drifts
until the wounded soul oozes sadness
the red sun a bubble of fire
drops slowely toward the hill
while one bird prattles
that the day is done
oh setting sun that as
in reverend days sinkest in music
to thy smoothed sleep
oh setting sun that as
in reverend days sinkest in music
to thy smoothed sleep discrowned of homage
though yet crowned with rays
hymned not at harvest
more yet in this field
where the cross planted reigns
I know not what strange passion
bows my head
to thee whose greate [bad word] upon my vains
proves thee a god for me
not dead