Here in my curving hands I cup This quiet dust; I lift it up. Here is the mother of all thought; Of this the shining heavens are wrought, The laughing lips, the feet that rove, The face, the body, that you love: Mere dust, no more, yet nothing less, And this has suffered consciousness, Passion, and terror, this again Shall suffer passion, death, and pain. For, as all flesh must die, so all, Now dust, shall live. 'T is natural; Yet hardly do I understand -- Here in the hollow of my hand A bit of God Himself I keep, Between two vigils fallen asleep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AURENG-ZEBE, OR THE GREAT MOGUL: PROLOGUE by JOHN DRYDEN YOUR HANDS by ANGELINA WELD GRIMKE TO SAN FRANCISCO by S. J. ALEXANDER THE ARCIERI OF MICHELANGELO by WILLIAM ROSE BENET PSALM 9. CONFITEBOR TIBI by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE HOTWELLS by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |