My soul is a white flame that has burned longer
Than Mars or Aldebaran or all the stars,
And gentler than a snowdrop, and far stronger
Than all the steel of its containing bars.
In cosmic triumphs upon timeless cars
My lordly soul hath lain. My soul is younger
Than the new-fallen dews in flowery jars:
My soul, my godly food, my godly hunger.
Where shall I place my soul for most safe keeping
From boisterous intention and omnivorous wave?
And sow it in what field for goodliest reaping,
From night to shield it and from sins to save?
Thou art my treasure-house, awake or sleeping,
Or wind-free in meadows or in the obscure grave.