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Mysterious mother substance, who are they
That flout the earth that made them? Who are they
That waste their wonder on the fabulous soul?
I can but choose to marvel at the clay.
This clay, this dream-sown sod, this chemic earth,
This wizard dust, wherein all shapes of birth,—
Soft flowers, great beasts, and huge pathetic kings,—-
Small seeds of wonder, fill a needle's girth.
This clay, this haunted house of sight and sound,
Strange sunny rooms that airily resound
With phantom music played for phantom feet—
And hark! a rat is gnawing underground.
This clay, so strong of heart, of sense so fine,
Surely such clay is more than half divine—
'Tis only fools speak evil of the clay,
The very stars are made of clay like mine.
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