‘Stones’ by George MacBeth
Stones that are chiselled by the niggling rain,
Dislodged by blast, or twisted in the grain,
Sometimes attain a chaos of pure form,
The core of marble in the whirling storm.
Thus Chance may show where famous secrets hid,
The key to Sculpture in the conic lid,
The rhythmic metre of the pyramid.
March 11, 1953
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A Ghuí ar a Croí
Dá mbeadh brait gréasacha na neimhe Maisithe le solas airgid óir, Iad gorma, dorcha, agus séimhe
Where Are You From?
Not London. Cities with other litanies: Snow Hill, Nechells, Harbourne, Lozells. The late bus from B
