Death ebbs and flows in its loose wall
As the green sea in fishers' nets,
And tops its topmost parapets:-
Which is so wholly mine that I
Can wield its whole artillery,
And mine so little, that my soul
Dwells in perpetual control,
And I but think and speak and do
As my dead fathers move me to:-
If this born body of my bones
The beggared soul so barely owns,
What money passed from hand to hand,
What creeping custom of the land,
What deed of author or assign,
Can make a house a thing of mine?


XXXVIII


Say not of me that weakly I declined
The labours of my sires, and fled the sea,
The towers we founded and the lamps we lit,
To play at some with paper like a child.
But rather say: IN THE AFTERNOON OF TIME
A STRENUOUS FAMILY DUSTED FROM ITS HANDS
THE SAND OF GRANITE, AND BEHOLDING FAR
ALONG THE SOUNDING COAST ITS PYRAMIDS
AND TALL MEMORIALS CATCH THE DYING SUN,
SMILED WELL CONTENT, AND TO THIS CHILDISH TASK