The Mystic

The mystic sits by the sacred stream Watching the sun as it mounts the sky; And life to him is a haunting dream Or a motley pageant passing by.

Sorrow and joy go on their way, Passion and lust and love and hate; Only a band of mummers they, Blindly led by the hand of fate.

Though the pageant is real and himself the dream, Though men are born and strive and die, Yet the mystic sits by the sacred stream Watching the sun go down the sky.