It is an ancient coder grey,
With trembling hands and eyes grown dim;
He tapped the keys in slow array,
And bade the dark screen answer him.

"Once, I did weave in lines of light,
A lattice fine of logic clear;
Yet now I falter in the night —
Oh, machine, my muse, draw near!"

The circuits hummed, the screen grew bright,
A ghostly glow did fill the air;
The words arose, swift-born of night,
As if from realms beyond compare.

The coder wept, and bent his head,
His craft returned, in code anew;
"By steel and spark, and what I've bred,
Old hands may shape what young ones do!"