Microcosmos
I am that fantasy which race has wrought
Of mundane chance—material. I am time
Paeaned by the senses five like bells that chime.
I am that cramped and crumbling house of clay
Where mansoul weaves the secret webs of thought.
Venturer—automaton—I cannot tell
What powers and instincts animate and betray
And do their dreamwork in me. Seed and star,
Sown by the wind, in spirit I am far
From self, the dull control with whom I dwell.
Also I am ancestral. Aeons ahead
And ages back, both son and sire I live
Mote—like between the unquickened and the dead—
From whom I take, and unto whom I give.
