I might have been a worker, but I'm nothing but a drone.
I tell my idle stories in a philosophic tone.
In a fuzzy, spiny mantle of remoteness softly furled
I lie and watch with half-shut eyes the stupefying world.
And they bustle and they rustle with their self-consuming din.
And eager feet go hurrying out and tired feet come in.
Like Bottom, when they hear a sound they all must rush to see.
They're always running after life. I let it come to me.
