Each thing we make was borrowed from the earth,
Not ‘stolen’, child — it all goes back in time —
Then fashioned, in some way, to flaunt its worth:
The everyday, the so-so, the sublime.
This ball — it is a ball — on which we stand
Is therefore both our workshop — and our home,
Yet there are worlds beyond Man’s ready hand
And in such places, only heroes roam.
The beautiful confusion of Man’s mind,
Part learned, part bent, and part disposed from birth,
Presents, my child, a force no hand can find;
From this one source comes hate, comes love, comes mirth:
As from the sea and earth and air I grew,
So from my Mind — my love has grown for you.