The little stones chuckle against the fields: <br />'We are so small: God will not think of us; <br />We are so old already, we have seen <br />So many generations blunt their ploughs, <br />Tilling the fields we lie in; and we dream <br />Of our first sleep among the ancient hills.' <br />The grass laughs, thinking: 'I am born and die, <br />And born and die, and know not birth or death, <br />Only the going on of the green earth.' <br />The rivers pass and pass, and are the same, <br />And I, who see the beauty of the world, <br />Pass, and am not the same, or know it not, <br />And know the world no more. O is not this <br />Some horrible conspiracy of things, <br />That I have known and loved and lingered with <br />All my days through, and now they turn like hosts <br />Who have grown tired of a delaying guest? <br />They cast me out from their eternity: <br />God is in league with their forgetfulness.<br /><br />Arthur Symons<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-toledo-2/
