The Act
To a thinking mind, I myself attach,
And organize the thoughts therein.
Trembling hands, a soft word: details to match,
Ignoring her would be a sin.
Such a concept even simple minds catch.
There is little to me,
Give me no countenance.
What I am is nothing you can see,
I am of little substance,
And merely energy.
To the mind I find
I give myself completely.
Leaving my old self behind
Without charging a fee,
Not even expecting to be repaid in kind.
To the mind I inspire
Such great fire
That causeth many a buyer
To flock to the mire
Where I dwell
[Retire]
