Stone

For the stone splits and crumbles 
And from the stone is born the pine, 

Grown vaster than time and more slow. 
But as the wind blows cold, 
The pine changes and becomes the stone again. 

The wind goes to the south 
And then turns to the north, 
Never resting quiet, still. 
All rivers run into the sea; 
Yet the sea is not full; 
From the place from which the rivers run, 
To there they shall return again. 

The thing that has been is that which shall be; 
And that which is shall be again. 
For the sun is old and there is nothing new in his eyes. 
Life, what is it but a dream? 
Ever drifting lingering in the golden gleam, 
Rushing beyond, slower than time, 

They march so slow: 
The gray bull, 
The crouching tortoise, 
The yellow amber, 
And the gray green stone. 
I am the stone and the stone is in me.