Sterile These Stones By Time In Ruin Laid. Yet Many A Creeping Thing Its Haven Has Made In These Least Crannies, Where Falls Dark'S Dew, And Noonday Shade. The Claw Of The Tender Bird Finds Lodgment Here; Dye-Winged Butterflies Poise; Emmet And Beetle Steer Their Busy Course; The Bee Drones, Laden, Near. Their Myriad-Mirrored Eyes Great Day Reflect. By Their Exquisite Farings Is This Granite Specked; Is Trodden To Infinite Dust; By Gnawing Lichens Decked. Toward What Eventual Dream Sleeps Its Cold On, When Into Ultimate Dark These Lives Shall Be Gone, And Even Of Man Not A Shadow Remain Of All He Has Done?