 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
300
THE LAST STONE.
My pile is heap'd: the world goes whirling on,And each man's life is full of chance and change,
While all withal that seems so new and strange
Looks like an old familiar, soon as done:
So must the Soul, that up and down doth range
Restless and energetic, set up straight
Its Runic record ever and anon,
Or pile its cairn of pebbles, one by one,
To mark the ways that lead to Duty's gate;
And I, much musing in mine ivied grange,
Thankful for life at such a busy time,
And earnest, though much erring every way,
Fling out in hope my way-side heap of rhyme
To rest some wearied traveller, as it may.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |