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.