The stones are gray
And so are they.
And both are weatherworn and round,
Leading the eye back to the ground.
Two mingled flocks –
The sheep, the rocks.
And still no sheep stirs from its place
Or lifts its Babylonian face.
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Searock he built, not ivory.Searock as well his haunted artWho gave to plunging hawks his hearts.2He loved to stand upon his headTo demonstrate he was not dead.Ah, if his poems misbehave‘Tis only to defy the grave.3This exquisite patrician birdGrooming a neatly folded wingGuarded for years the Sacred Word.A while he sang then ceased to sing.4His…
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