Of Form

I take chaos in my hand;—
No, I take it first in mind
And create it my own land

Disorganized, where shade and light
Tremble together, and where beat
Silence and sound in a running fight,

Until I hold them in my mouth
And sort them out with tongue and teeth
And blow them forth upon my breath; 

Till I put light upon one side
Of a sphere and, on the other, shade,
Molding an orange, or a head

Such as my own; where chaos stands
A moment abeyant to my commands
And dies in signs at my finger-ends.