Of what material, when dust nor any mote

of any thing of life or un-life yet--

of what made? Of no thing

but what is formed by the shape

of words. My words are shape.

This is my making. I speak

of life, and that rushes out

to meet my speaking it, and joys

 to Be what I have Made.

What song is greater than that

which, sung, springs up

a thousand verdant fruitful plains,

calls out ten million on ten million stars,

births land from sea, and cuts horizon through

this sea and sky, which sees the moon at night

and breaks with ruddy hue at morning's dawn?

What other song has sung

the shape of feathered bird

and flashing fin, deep-calling baleen

and high-trilling thrush--the shape

of every life that slides or crawls,

cavorts or strides across My infant earth?

My word, My breath, My song. A fingerful

of soil and My spirit in your lungs. Your stolen rib

and counterpart are one. You are made 

Mine. You'll Be--and be undone.

And so will I be rent, my stolen Made,

when next my fingers touch this tender soil:

My mouth will shape a keening cry

of birth; my shape

will look like every one of yours.

When I have tasted full your filth and pain--

This song will not be finished until then.