Crawling low among the stubbles,
Thing compact of clay, a body
Meant to perish,—think it odd, eh?
Raise your eyes, poor clod, and try to
See the tree-tops, and the sky too!
There’s the sun with pulses splendid
Whirling onward, star attended!
Child of light am I, the wizard,
Fiery-form’d from brain to gizzard,
While for you, my sun-craft spurning,