by Innes Randolph
There lived a man in olden time
That loved a stone;
'Twas veined with lines of tender hue,
With flowers overgrown.
He wooed it from the flush of dawn
To twilight lone;
T'was wondrous lovely, so he thought,
But still a stone.
He tried to cut his name thereon
And leave a trace
Of his great love, so deep that Time
Should not erase.
He kissed the unrelenting rock
From cope to base;
He gashed his breast in clasping it
With wild embrace.
He sought to warm it with his breath,
That icy stone;
The coldness chilled him unto death,
Through flesh and bone.
And so he perished then, and lay
All pale and prone;
He thought he loved a woman,
but he loved a stone.