Seneca

Oh chariot of insect Oh crown of wind Two royal leopards run with him On a golden lead of tapered vine Oh the blood sky, oh the blood sky Vine of a god running wild Oh golden seed who made the winged child Run, run my little one Run out to sea Run, run my little one What do you seek? The canvas is high The scheme of a life Written in the wind The pen, the knife Run my little one Breathe a hymn Breathe my little one A hymn to him To him The master is calling, calling The canvas is high The scheme of a life Written in the wind The pen, the knife Run, run out to sea Run my little one What do you seek? If you were his eyes If you were his dreams The whole of the sky could not contain you So run, run, run out to sea Run my little one Breathe a hymn for him For thee