The Soul required a greater Soul, a Soul of Souls, to rule the host; Hence spirit-powers and hierarchies, all gendered by the savage Ghost.

Not yours, ye Peoples of the Book, these fairy visions fair and fond, Got by the gods of Khemi-land* and faring far the seas beyond!

“Th’ immortal mind of mortal man!” we hear yon loud-lunged Zealot cry; Whose mind but means his sum of thought, an essence of atomic “I.”

Thought is the work of brain and nerve, in small-skulled idiot poor and mean; In sickness sick, in sleep asleep, and dead when Death lets drop the scene.

“Tush!” quoth the Zâhid, “well we ken the teaching of the school abhorr’d That maketh man automaton, mind a secretion, soul a word.”