“If thou tasteth a crust of bread,
Thou tasteth the stars and the skies.”
So Paracelsus said,
Paracelsus the wise.

For the least of beauty that comes
To the convict watching a cloud,
The least of love in those homes
Too poor for cradle or shroud,

Is Beauty transcending dust,
Is Love that rebukes the beast.
Let us say a grace for the crust
That falls from the infinite feast.