“A mass of dust, world’s momentary slave, Is man, in state of our old Adam made, Soon born to die, soon flourishing to fade.”

Ah, sweet Content, where doth thine harbour hold.

Once upon a time there were three kittens, and their names were Mitten, Tom Kitten, and Moppet. They had dear little fur coats of their own; and they tumbled about the doorstep and played in the dust.

Our true buddha-nature has no shape. And the dust of affliction has no form.

The gospel humbles us into the dust and at the very same time exalts us to the heavens.

Man is a centaur, a tangle of flesh and mind, divine inspiration and dust.

Worry, doubt, fear and despair are the enemies which slowly bring us down to the ground and turn us to dust before we die.

… if they [your children] write their names in the dust on the furniture, don’t let them put the year.

It is true that we are made of dust. And the world is also made of dust. But the dust has motes rising.

When the white man who is always the aggressor knows he runs as great a risk of biting the dust every time his Afro-American victim does, he will have greater respect for Afro-American life.