“I am a stone,” said I,
And to the ear that heard, I turned,
“See what I’ve made?” (In breathless rapture.)
A hasty glance was made to capture.
“See how it stands,” said I,
With spark, a gleam, in eye that burned.
And then that ear, with tongue, awoke,
“I am the stone,” it also spoke.
“But I have made,” said I,
With silent speed, “and I have earned…”
That ear with tongue, now piercing look,
Retrieved my breath with dogged hook,
And to the ground went I,
As though like sea it tossed and churned,
Ear, and tongue, and eye, with hand,
Reaching forth with holy brand,
“Listen!” said ear, and I,
Upon my knees that rapture spurned,
“No stone are you, but paltry shred,
Following forgotten head.”
When final word heard I,
A speck of sand, the case now learned.
No stone was I, but clay for cup,
A maker not – the one filled up.