A growing brain and then a soul,
Sure these are but prophetic germ
Of that which makes our circle whole.
John Albee.
From THE SONG OF MYSELF
I am an acme of things accomplish’d, and I am an encloser of things to be.
My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs:
On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps,
All below duly travel’d, and still I mount and mount.
Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me: