Welcome, my bode.

Enter beyond, 

Seek the fond, 

Who dare to lay, 

Eyes too stray, 

A kindle too hard, 

For who should fawn ? 

Merrily ! Merrily ! 

We ride into the dawn, 

The paths behold, 

A string quite sewn, 

Parrish of hope, 

In we stroll: 

To the centre,

We appear, 

Before a crowd so clear, 

An eyesight to behold, 

Who could know ? 

Our dear friends are old. 

Perchance we lose the robe, 

Duties unfold,

Our rituals go untold;

So we feast the night, 

And tell the trite, 

Till every last soul, 

Profess their good share of odes: 

A tiny crowd, 

Pondered so wide, 

Who could know? 

But the one behind.