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...OMNIPRESENCE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE PROGRESS OF POETRY; A VARIATION by MATTHEW ARNOLD WHEN ON THE MARGE OF EVENING by LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY IN TENEBRIS: 2 by THOMAS HARDY IN A BYE-CANAL by HERMAN MELVILLE PRAYERS OF STEEL by CARL SANDBURG ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME? by MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON SANGSTER |