HERITAGE

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.