The little stones chuckle against 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,