While sitting dull in swarms of gold,
This tumult and confounding twist,
I see through hazy sight a hold,
To drag upon in violent twirl,
Accreting there the crusted edge,
The fool's descent of half knowledge.

I never knew so many ways to count,
But lately I've been finding that,
To count is quite a science and an art,
Demanding quite an effort of abstraction and taxonomy.

I'm washed in lighted dark,
The neon signs do mark the sky,
And all the lights do clamour orange,
Above it all: the Pale Moon...
Glorious and pure in light splendid,
And the clamour is clear and rid beneath,
O holy one made known to me in whispers,
Has called to me in brilliant light,
That He alone stands pure and bright,
And all the lights beneath are simply noise and static.