But
as he grows he gathers much,
And learns the use of ‘I,’ and ‘me,’
And finds ‘I am not what I see,
And
other than the things I touch.’
So
rounds he to a separate mind
From whence clear memory may begin,
As thro’ the frame that binds him in
His
isolation grows defined.
This
use may lie in blood and breath,
Which else were fruitless of their due,
Had man to learn himself anew
Beyond
the second birth of Death.