'Tis you who hold My heat, my cold, My rigour and my ecstasy. Control my days. Compel my ways To action or to lethargy.
You fill my nights With keen delights Of a stupendous dreaming. O! Little Seed, Who at my need Flowers to such splendid seeming!
The speaker addresses an inner force she calls “Nucleus”—the core of herself, a creative seed—as the power that holds all her extremes: heat and cold, strictness and ecstasy. It decides whether she acts or sinks into stillness, and it fills her nights with intense, almost overwhelming dreams.
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