For until the Song of the Poet is heard
Ye do not live, ye can not live.
O noonday ghosts that gabble of losing and gaining,
Pitiful paupers that starve in the plenteous midmost
Of bounty unbounded.
Didst thou make me?
Some say yea.
Did I make thee?
Some say yea.
Oh, am I then thy son, O God,