“He Remembereth That We Are Dust”

And when was dust a thing so rash?
Or when could dust support the lash
And stand as arrogant as stone?
And where has revelation shown
Conceit and rage so interfused
In dust, that suns have stood bemused
To watch the reckless consequence?
And when did dust break reticence
To sing aloud with all its might
In egotistical delight?
Yet when the tale is told of wind
That lifted dust and drove behind
To scoop the valleys from their sleep
And bury landscapes inches deep
Till there must follow years of rain
Before the earth could breathe again—
Or when the appetite of fire
Blazes beyond control and higher,
Then sinks into the sullen waste
Of what, devouring, it effaced,
And thinly in my palm I hold
The dust of ash grown wan and cold,
I know what element I chose
To build such anger, mould such woes.