Who is he that I drag about;
This carping ever present thing,
Who splits my purpose, breeding doubt?
Is he my subject or my king?
Body and soul we well may be,
But which am 'I' and which is 'he'?
Some day, they say, I shall escape,
And looking down from the high sky,
Shall see below in finite shape
Divorced by death, this other I:
And know on that transcendent day
That I was spirit, he was clay.
Yet - what if mine the part to lie
Cast off, out worn, and viewed with loathing,
To rot where he has flung me by,
Glad to be rid of his smirched clothing?
If he were greater, not the less,
And I below his consciousness?