Dawn's fingers reach the dark,
An early day's song called by a lark.
Not early enough to be called morn,
Nothing so far is in forlorn.
Awaking has not been forsaken,
Although only a mousemaid has awaken.
She is padding across the floor,
Breathing quiet, shallow breaths,
As opening the Great Hall Door.
Walk to Martin's tapestry in awe,
Thinking of the wonderful dream she saw.
She saw a great warrior bring peace to her land,
A wonderful warrior, delivering them into peace's hand.
Smiling sleepily, she lays on the floor of stone,
Feeling no longer alone.