For what is lumpen ore no more
Cold forged and grey upon
The darkened smithy floor
Now Irradescent is the heart
Of one that loves, and yet
No longer has to play a part
For whom there be but one port,
One harbour, one perfect creation
Who from lifeless clay was wrought.
One light at the distant window cill,
A single reason to breathe in this world
One well, where he may take his fill.