My Body which my Dungeon Is

MY body which my dungeon is, / And yet my parks and palaces: - / Which is so great that there I go / All the day long to and fro, / And when the night begins to fall / Throw down my bed and sleep, while all / The building hums with wakefulness- / Even as a child of savages / When evening takes her on her way, / (She having roamed a summer's day / Along the mountain-sides and scalp) / Sleeps in an antre of that alp: - / Which is so broad and high that there, / As in the topless fields of air, / My fancy soars like to a kite / 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?