A wealth of inside days yawn lengthily,
In my slow-moving suitably unmoved,
Like this to make small mirrors of the frost,
It's ever pressing fall in heavy eves relieved.

Digging up a sleepy day,
Long buried far away,
Late morning breaking of a fast,
The sails lie scattered from the mast,
For here we shall not sink nor swim,
But rest the gentle waves until the lights grow dim.

To fight the cold in these solid days,
My sword a reproducing shiver,
My breastplate woven fabric interlapping,
Yet in these solid days,
That press against the edge of space,
I feel ten suns there to my side,
A warmth through-seeping layers deep,
Now I am soft melting.
Bound up in fabric interlapping.

Wide eyed and stupefied,
I wonder and quake,
I revel and mumble,
Awed in his wake.

He's glorious, you see,
Good and oh so gracious,
He's precious to me,
His house is oh so spacious.

So revel and quake,
Come with me, sit still,
And honour his name,
He is worthy of praise.