We decompose and recompose,
Simultaneously forever.
The sun burneth still so brightly
With other false forms together.
Am I author of mine own art?
No! I'm a player of a part.

What in this wide-wide world is mine?
What may I, a man, make as Man?
What I make is already made!
What is mine of sea, sky, or land?
Nothing! I make with borrowed art,
An actor of a small-small part.

How many spiteful schemes there are
Forgotten, thus worse repeated!
How many wondrous works have been
Remembered, yet incompleted!
Am I author of mine own art?
No! A player of the same part.

You, woman, show man how to be!
You art organizer of truth.
Sett'ling his cold conquering spirit
With model maiden virtuous youth.
You are his real, pure archetype;
Yea, his inspiration for peace,
Comprehending his restless mind,
Causing his anxieties to cease.
With motherly mind and pure heart,
You have chosen the better part.

My rib may form another man
Within her vital, precious womb;
My hand write down eternal truths,
But what may I do ‘fore the tomb?
Am I author of mine own art?
Why yes! When I let Him freely form mine own heart.

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