Do not leap gaily into that harsh fog,

Do not leap gaily into that harsh fog,
lone joy should live and roar at close of day;
fume, fume against the failing of the cross.
Though brave saints at their end know dark is just,
Because their gnats had conveyed no trust they
Do not leap gaily into that harsh fog,
harsh saints, the best ease by, crying how bold
Their boring faiths might have dared in a fresh heath,
fume, fume against the failing of the cross.
wild saints who checked and sang the queen in shock,
And learn, too fast, they forced it on its way,
Do not leap gaily into that harsh fog,
sad saints, near death, who hear with clenching grasp
lost dreams could flare like anger and be free,
fume, fume against the failing of the cross.
And you, my son, there on the banal peak,
beat, kiss, me now with your brave light, I pray.
Do not leap gaily into that harsh fog,
fume, fume against the failing of the cross.

Crunch!