Microcosmos

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  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.

© Siegfried Sassoon