From overhead and give me clay,
Oh, give me lots of clay—the tender flesh,
The oily, tender flesh of mother earth,
Responsive as a mistress to the touch,
And I will have a feast no king e’er knew,
And taste of pleasures that the gods would envy.
And I will make unto myself a world,
A world of which myself would be the God,
A world in which my every dream and thought,
My every feeling and my every passion