The Soul Remembers

I AM a moth that has been blind with light,
A breath that drank the youngness of the day
And drugged primeval thirst with flowers of night,
A wing that winnowed dust from beauty’s way.
In ecstasy, I urged my answering blood
To lift me on the high transcendent wave
That flings mortality upon God’s rood,
To sunder breath from body but to save.
Now I am wan at these great majesties.
I bow before them, yet they seem afar
As ruined shrines to outworn pilgrim eyes,
Or the soul’s haven in an unseen star:
A morning drop of dew that held the sun
And dies of splendor, its bright cycle run.