Classic Poem

What is the fire-mist but a thought,
A figment of the fervid brain?
Without thy thinking it is nought—
Insensible, inert, inane.

And though the thought be wise and warm,
And from its womb a world arise,
And in the world strange monsters swarm,
And grow to men with human eyes.

Still, thought is the creative force;
And though the forms of thought decay,
Natheless, the spiritual source
Of thinking will not pass away.

Brain-cells? These, too, in thought exist,
How then can thought on these depend?
The force of thought will still persist,
Altho' these things of thought do end.