GRANITE AND SORREL 51 



The granite returns to its particles, though un- 

 numbered ages shall be demanded for its destruc- 

 tion, but the wood-sorrel survives the grey centuries, 

 and laughs at Time. The granite knows neither 

 Spring nor Summer ; to his fretted face, where dwell 

 golden lichens and the ebony and silver life that sucks 

 existence from stone, the spring rain means only 

 deathly certainty of dropping water. Wild autumn 

 winds, that send the gold of the woods whirling round 

 his grey skull, also indicate the end, and foreshadow 

 ultimate tempests that shall help to lay all low ; while 

 the steel-thrust of the frost, the soft folds of the green 

 ivy, the sappy fingers of root-life, alike by harsh 

 means and gentle, combine to compass the inevitable 

 end. The ruin is a dead skeleton. His bones 

 were torn in ages past from the living rock, and 

 they have covered Nature's prime enemy and hidden 

 him from her answer for a little while. Man built 

 this ruin, and now the powers of the air are turned 

 against granite wall and lancet window, crumbling 

 keep and shaking tower. But unnumbered blossoms 

 hide the busy forces combining to destroy ; pale 

 uprising wind-flowers nod in the grass that was 

 a courtyard ; budding briars, clustered primroses, 

 violets, daisies, celandines, and a thousand other 

 buds and stars and chalices of the unfolding year 

 dapple the granite, and twinkle from its shattered 

 heights. These rule the spring rain and make the 

 sun in heaven do them service. For them is the 

 dance of the seasons ; they are the eternal things of 



