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...AT CASTERBRIDGE FAIR: 3. AFTER THE CLUB-DANCE by THOMAS HARDY THE CITY AT THE END OF THINGS by ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION by WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY THE INDIAN SERENADE by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |