The soul’s no more at home

 Found it rambling ’round the web, no title given. It provides ponderables.

The soul’s no more at home in this loud place,
A dark shape wrestling with a darker thing,
Father, forgive me, I cried to His Face.
Forgive my words, no longer close to song.
What I once scorned, I secretly embrace.

Teach me, sweet love, a way of being plain!
My virtues are but vices in disguise,
The little light I had was Henry Vaughan’s.
I hunted fire in ice: the soul’s unease
In the loose rubble, the least glittering stone:
And what I found was but one riddled bone:

I move, unseeing, toward an absolute
So bright within it darkens all I am;
Am dropped away: dropped out of time,
One still too frail to bear himself, alone

[Theodore Roethke, Straw for the Fire: From the Notebooks of Theodore Roethke: 1943-1963, selected and arranged by David Wagoner (Garden City, NY: Anchor, 1974), pp. 122-123.]

Without access to the original, I cannot say if the poem ends here, with the transcriber having forgot the final period, or if more follows in the book. Source here.