What is this flesh that does so body a man?
This dust we obsequiously tend to as if unpriced,
Or price it as we may, the less shall move
Our obstinate obsession with this thing of nothingness.
Though we say “’tis kin to dust,” our minds we fool
Not in themselves but in their dusty tombs.
For dust would play the part of man, and man－
The beast he is－would play the which of dust,
But none shall win this player’s game whose stage
Is but a set
for this to follow that
And death to follow life, though only a fool,
Blinded to sight, would see not through the act.
For whence the curtains go forth once more to fall,
The scrupulous man shall see the set the same
As it was at the start of the show, ere they did draw,
And this dust was not a man but dust remains.