It is the first day of the world
Man wakes into: the bars of the blind
And their key-signature, a leaf,
Stream darkly to two warmths;
One trembles, becomes his face.
He floats from the sunlight
Into a shadowed place:
There is a chatter, a blur of wings—
But where is the edge of things?
Where does the world begin?
                                               His dreams
Have changed into this day, this dream;
He thinks, “But where am I?”
A voice calls patiently:
“Remember.”
He thinks, “But where am I?”
His great limbs are curled
Through sunlight, about space.
What is that, remember?
He thinks that he is younger
Than anything has ever been.
He thinks that he is the world.

But his soul and his body
Call, as the bird calls, their one word—
And he remembers.

He is lost in himself forever.

And the Angel he makes from the sunlight
Says in mocking tenderness:
“Poor stateless one, wert thou the world?”
His soul and his body
Say."What hast thou made of us, thy servants?
We are sick. We are dull. We are old.”
“Who is this man? We know him not,” says the world.

They have spoken as he would have made them speak;
And who else is there to speak?

The bars of the sunlight fall to his face.

And yet something calls, as it has called:
“But where am I? But where am I?"