Classic Poem

A MID a waste and solitary field,
Upon the twilight boundary of the day,
Upspake the timeless flintstone huge and gray:
“Why should my counsel be forever sealed?
To thee an ancient truth shall be revealed—
To thee, a wavering mortal, brief of stay:—
Something of kin,—thou piece of passioned clay,
Art thou and I, whom passion ne'er did wield;

For, lo! did not Deucalion at the flood
Behind him fling us stones—and men we grew?
With limbs we moved abroad, with lips we spake!
And hast not thou, with grief, seen flesh-and-blood
Become to thee as stones, that Pity's dew
Could never melt, nor yet thine anger break?”