I.

CHOICE.

Of all the souls that stand create I have elected one. When sense from spirit files away, And subterfuge is done;

When that which is and that which was Apart, intrinsic, stand, And this brief tragedy of flesh Is shifted like a sand;

When figures show their royal front And mists are carved away, -- Behold the atom I preferred To all the lists of clay!

I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there;

Nor tie to earths to come, Nor action new, Except through this extent, The realm of you.