Doubt not that the time is appointed,
That the chart with a quester is girt,
But remember that star-dust is star-dust
And ranks not the commonest dirt;
That the gods of Olympus were beggars
Or ever they burned to create,
And that rags ripple down into samite
For a Venus who swings on a gate;
That the steps of the paper-box factory,
As well as the gardens of kings,