Oh How I've Come Down

​Oh how I’ve come down
In the world. And these scraps
Of mud-smeared ruby and jade
Stick to me, to each synapse,

And I hose them off, for
Decades (at least!), still,
Because they clung to my skin,
To my soul and will,

They gain, they are
Already, somewhat, rising,
They are ready to be
Clean, (which is not surprising,

Because they have clung
To the soul made in the form—)
If not today, then, if not
In this home, in another dorm,

Rising and now in a form
That shines, that can cling
To the universe’s eternal
Birds that praise, that sing,

That sing the splendor
Of the crown that—we know
And we can’t know—(but
If my hair were white as snow,

Perhaps I would be there
As it rose.) Yes, 
It rises, yes, it sparkles
Till the meadows opalesce.