The little stones chuckle among the fields: "We are so small: God will not think of us; We are so old already, we have seen So many generations blunt their ploughs, Tilling the fields we lie in; and we dream Of our first sleep among the ancient hills." The grass laughs, thinking: "I am born and die, And born and die, and know not birth or death, Only the going on of the green earth." The rivers pass and pass, and are the same, And I, who see the beauty of the world, Pass, and am not the same, or know it not, And know the world no more. O is not this Some horrible conspiracy of things, That I have known and loved and lingered with All my days through, and now they turn like hosts Who have grown tired of a delaying guest? They cast me out from their eternity: God is in league with their forgetfulness | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TANGENTIAL by LOUIS UNTERMEYER TOMORROW by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD CHAUCERS WORDES UNTO ADAM, HIS OWN SCRIVEYN by GEOFFREY CHAUCER SESTINA: 1. OF THE LADY PIETRA DEGLI SCROVIGNI by DANTE ALIGHIERI NO MASTER by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES |