Page:Underwoods, Stevenson, 1887.djvu/96

72 And faints in the blue infinite:—

Which is so strong, my strongest throes

And the rough world's besieging blows

Not break it, and so weak withal,

Death ebbs and flows in its loose wall

As the green sea in fishers' nets,

And tops its topmost parapets:—

Which is so wholly mine that I

Can wield its whole artillery,

And mine so little, that my soul

Dwells in perpetual control,

And I but think and speak and do

As my dead fathers move me to:—

If this born body of my bones

The beggared soul so barely owns,

What money passed from hand to hand,

What creeping custom of the land,

What deed of author or assign,

Can make a house a thing of mine?