In plain words
The poet, of himself: The cloud-coloured Lord, who lifts up the fallen, came today to turn me from births without number whose round never ceased; he drew near and mingled his own abiding radiance with me, made one with him. And so my soul has cut away all that kept it turning [ignorance, deeds, their traces, the taste for them, the bond with the body], and gained the home of joy that never ends.