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.