The sun has spread his shining wings
and moves upon his endless way:
he tells the passing of the day,
and mocks the breath of mortal things.

Across the desert of the sky
he trails his burning caravan:
page 198 he lights the dusty ways of man,
and whispers him that he must die.

His light is music in the leaves
all day, with sunbeams stretched for strings:
yet as he touches them he sings—
and wise men know the tale he weaves.