I rose from dust and to that dust return,

A child of the universe — no more;

Yet of that grit compounded in some urn—

There of what essence was it formed before?

Should I now care from whence my atoms sprang

Or in whose own heart they once did beat and flow—

That they once spawned a thought in tyrant’s brains

Or spent long eons locked in ice and snow?

If they were cast from bits of fallen stars,

Then there some piece of Heaven I might claim—

That purposed plan, not arcane force afar

Had hand in molding clay that bears my name.

From dust, from ash, from earth, it matters not;

Wherefrom, whereto, whereof, or what’s my lot.