Dust

My words are dust.

I who would build a star,

I who would touch the heel of the white sun;

Staggering up the inaccessible sky,

I look upon the dust.

The stainless clouds go mounting

In shining spires;

And a little heap of dust

Are my desires.

Yet, dwelling long upon these peaks

Unchained upon the flickering western sky,

I have beheld them at the breath of darkness

Fade slowly out and die.

What of my lineage?

Arrogant and swift,

I bend above the dust,

Untouched of all my grief,

Untarnished of the hour,

And lo! the leaf—

The passionate climbing flower!