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Gilbert Keith Chesterton - The Praise Of Dust
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`What of vile dust?` the preacher said.
  Methought the whole world woke,
The dead stone lived beneath my foot,
  And my whole body spoke.

`You, that play tyrant to the dust,
  And stamp its wrinkled face,
This patient star that flings you not
  Far into homeless space.

`Come down out of your dusty shrine
  The living dust to see,
The flowers that at your sermon`s end
  Stand blazing silently.

`Rich white and blood-red blossom; stones,
  Lichens like fire encrust;
A gleam of blue, a glare of gold,
  The vision of the dust.

`Pass them all by: till, as you come
  Where, at a city`s edge,
Under a tree--I know it well--
  Under a lattice ledge,

`The sunshine falls on one brown head.
  You, too, O cold of clay,
Eater of stones, may haply hear
  The trumpets of that day

`When God to all his paladins
  By his own splendour swore
To make a fairer face than heaven,
  Of dust and nothing more.`
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