The limbs that move, the eyes that see,
These are not entirely me;
Dead men and women helped to shape,
The mold which I do not escape.


The words I speak, my written line,
These are not uniquely mine;
For in my heart and in my will,
Old ancestors are warring still.


Celt, Roman, Saxon, and all the dead,
From whose rich blood my veins are fed;
In aspect, gesture, voices, tone,
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.


In fields they tilled I plow the sod,
I walk the mountain paths they trod;
And round my daily steps arise,
The good and bad of those I comprise.

Written by English Author Richard Rolle,
over 600 years ago.

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