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.