There’s an old stone wall that’s almost down
Over on the other side of town.
It’s not so pretty in many ways
As it must have been in its earlier days,
And yet a fascination there
Hits me hard when I pass and stare.
It’s green with algae; it drips with moss,
And though it’s old, there’s no sense of loss
About that wall–it is grim and sage
And, indifferent, it dares old age
In a way I should like to when I grow old
And my cells are mossy, and down, and cold.
(I shall have no plaints, if, after all,
I still can learn from an old stone wall.)
by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 8, 1946
