Motes, of Dust and detritus

Casements are always made to be broached,
fear not, worry not
        There are those who dare,
simply because its there,
and there are those who dare,
because they wish the care

        a mote is the Eye,
a sliver of a look,
those glances reviled,
often take a hook
Cold stone hearths,
a blazing fire may warm,
who is in the bosom and who is in the pit
      Cockles of the seas, rush forth and make merry,
Wind toss'd flurries, and caked harmonies
        Who will sup?
those who came again