Prince of Dust

What will Thou in me behold

When aspiration's fire's cold

And all Thy love could little mould

Such seething spirit young, yet old.

Pergolas of fantasy

Appear in twilight's shadow-streams

Image of unreality

Vague conjurer of empty dreams.

A prince of dust and breeze I fly

Borne on morning's magic's clouds

Passing earth's exigencies

Clothed in ancient winding shrouds.

On dark peripheries of mind

I wait the emptiness of space

In life's entanglement I find

No constant turn towards Thy Face.