Along the country roadside, stone on stone,
Past waving grain-field, and near broken stile,
The walls stretch onward, an uneven pile,
With rankling vines and lichen overgrown:
So stand they sentinel. Unchanged, alone,
They ’re left to watch the seasons’...
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Yes, stone the woman, let the man go free! |
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How happy is the little Stone |
It was a Grave, yet bore no Stone |