Dust

I heard them in their sadness say,

“The earth rebukes the thought of God;

We are but embers wrapped in clay

A little nobler than the sod.”

                                                But I have touched the lips of clay,

Mother, thy rudest sod to me

Is thrilled with fire of hidden day,

And haunted by all mystery.

Note: First published in the Irish Theosophist May 15, 1894.