‘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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