Is singing his heart to the night.
His lyre is gold and ebony.
His voice is silver and gold.
Sed God
I would not be so vain as to be no more.
I could not but choose the hardest way;
To follow the seasons and support the majesty of the years;
To sow the seed and to watch it thrust through the soil;
To call the flower from its hiding place
And give it strength to le its own life,
And then to pluck it wheorm laughs in the forest;
To raise man from secret darkness,
Yet keep his roots ging to the earth;
To give him thirst for life, and make death his cupbearer;
To endow him with love that waxeth with pain,
As with desire, and increases with longing,
And fadeth away with the first embrace;
To girdle his nights with dreams of higher days,
And infuse his days with visions of blissful nights,
Ao fine his days and his nights
To their immutable resemblance;
To make his fancy like the eagle of the mountain,
And his thought as the tempests of the seas,
Ao give him hands slow in decision,
A heavy with deeration;
To give him gladhat he may sing before us,
And sorrow that he may call unto us,
And then to lay him low,
When the earth in her hunger cries for food;
To raise his soul high above the firmament
That he may foretaste our tomorrow,
And to keep his body groveling in the mire
That he may not fet his yesterday.
Thus shall we rule man unto the end of time,
G the breath that began with his mothers g,
And ends with the lamentation of his children.
First God
My heart thirsts, yet I would not drink the faint blood of a feeble race,
For the cup is tainted, and the viherein is bitter to my mouth.
Like thee I have khe clay and fashio to breathing forms
That crept out of my dripping fingers unto the marshes
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