According to the Mighty Working

I

When moiling seems at cease

In the vague void of night-time,

And heaven's wide roomage stormless

Between the dusk and light-time,

And fear at last is formless,

We call the allurement Peace.

II

Peace, this hid riot, Change,

This revel of quick-cued mumming,

This never truly being,

This evermore becoming,

This spinner's wheel onfleeing

Outside perception's range.