This Light

In whirlwind of chilly night, the heart keeps warm and glowing bright.

Who holds this light, I ask of you, that carried forth and greater grew, in burnished gold and silver-blue?

I ask of you who holds this light, in whirlwind of frosty night, however dim, however bright.

Who holds this light nobody knows, only that it softer grows.

Yet soft indeed, the smallest flame

can light the darkness just the same.