It's getting comfy now,
This place of mine,
So full of colours and at last,
The walls are hung upon my art,
My words have found it,
A place within this boisterous bundle of wires.

Friendly fascination for a people of my kind,
Who like to talk particularities for a welcome time,
Who know to weave a depth of knowlege into storied tunes,
Whose stories make my eyes to shine and prove to be a boon.

O Eastlight, dawn of sight,
Begins the quiet morn,
At First Light, splendor sown,
The fields are gold beneath,
At Lesser Light, the day,
In full, the toil and play,
At Greater Light, the calm,
Rest firm in warmest ray,
At Shadow Dead, the storm,
Ravenous, bitter cold,
At Shadow Silent, borne,
The heroes burnished bronze,

To catch the Eastlight pure,
To sit in fields of gold.