the Blessed_Ancestors shrine

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

The words I speak, the 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;
Around my daily steps arise - the good,
The bad - those I comprise

Richard Rolle 1290- 1349

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