IT happened once, before the duller Loomings of life defined them, I searched for slates of greenish colour A quarry where men mined them; And saw, the while I peered around there, In the quarry standing A form against the slate background there, Of fairness eye-commanding. And now, though fifty years have flown me, With all their dreams and duties, And strange-pipped dice my hand has thrown me And dust are all her beauties, Green slates -- seen high on roofs, or lower In waggon, truck, or lorry -- Cry out: "Our home was where you saw her Standing in the quarry!" |