Gas lamps in the east, and open fury falter. Gifts of wise within the vale, cast off thy broken shoulder.

Thankful of these days, for love of noble kind. The path of heart return again, and free thy ailing mind.

The fog is low, and yearning slyly grows. I hear the dawning sermons passed, take pittance on the woe.

Those western hills of old, brought laughter to the cold. And in the aging temple found, such kindly love so bold.

Of five wise loving laughter shown, and ways to lands beyond the known, I feel an newfound thunder call, to speak of grace within the loam.