The Limbs That Move

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.

by English author Richard Rolle

written over 600 years ago.