'What of vile dust?' the preacher said. <br /> Methought the whole world woke, <br />The dead stone lived beneath my foot, <br /> And my whole body spoke. <br /> <br />'You, that play tyrant to the dust, <br /> And stamp its wrinkled face, <br />This patient star that flings you not <br /> Far into homeless space. <br /> <br />'Come down out of your dusty shrine <br /> The living dust to see, <br />The flowers that at your sermon's end <br /> Stand blazing silently. <br /> <br />'Rich white and blood-red blossom; stones, <br /> Lichens like fire encrust; <br />A gleam of blue, a glare of gold, <br /> The vision of the dust. <br /> <br />'Pass them all by: till, as you come <br /> Where, at a city's edge, <br />Under a tree-I know it well- <br /> Under a lattice ledge, <br /> <br />'The sunshine falls on one brown head. <br /> You, too, O cold of clay, <br />Eater of stones, may haply hear <br /> The trumpets of that day <br /> <br />'When God to all his paladins <br /> By his own splendour swore <br />To make a fairer face than heaven, <br /> Of dust and nothing more.'<br /><br />Gilbert Keith Chesterton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-praise-of-dust/
