  All purged, at last, are glories in the dust,— Those temples that were worship for a day. The gallant banners of a people's trust, And hands and lips—and Aprils brief as they. Beyond their lighted moment in the sun, They bore away their splendours and their stains; Now they are dust, the cleansing ritual done, And only their dim holiness remains. Since I am somehow fashioned out of these, The quickened dust of city, saint and grass, Of holy altars and old mysteries,— Let me be mindful of them where I pass, Dishonouring not this garment among men, Lest I be shamed when I am dust again. |
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