If to the discard man's concealed machine Is lightly tossed; if the industry of the gland, The workmanship of blood—all the unseen And personal universe that the finest hand Shall never have the wit to demonstrate, Is casual waste; if the body's toil and power Shall but restore and not rejuvenate, Seeing the end is known unto the hour— How then shall that which feeds on the miracle, Man's own part in himself, the fractional soul, The tenant, not the landlord of the cell Be salvaged for its worth, when the functioning whole, The manifold interweaving of the obscure Law-governed flesh and bone shall not endure? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CORNUCOPIA OF RED AND GREEN COMFITS by AMY LOWELL MATER IN EXTREMIS by JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER SONNET COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE HAPPY WIND by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES SCUM O' THE EARTH' by ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER |