Faint Taste Poem by T. M. Moore

It's only gruel, I know, no spice or zing
like all that sumptuous, fine cuisine that rests,  
forgotten, on your master's shelves. The thing

is, when you're really hungry, what arrests
your palate and brings satisfaction to
your starving soul will be that which invests

it with a taste, though faint, of what is true
about the world that is and is to be,
and that suggests a place therein for you

which, having tasted, you begin to see
more clearly, which excites your mind and heart,
and which somehow you sense can set you free

from mundane cares, and make a work of art
of your existence, so that you might soar
with saints and angels in a world apart.

Then boldly go before your master, your
bowl thrust forth, and insist, 'May I have more? '