By the Runic Stone

   They sat, where the grass sloped down,

And chattered, he white-hatted, she in brown,

      Pink-faced, breeze-blown.

      Rapt there alone

   In the transport of talking so

In such a place, there was nothing to let them know

      What hours had flown.

      And the die thrown

   By them heedlessly there, the dent

It was to cut in their encompassment,

      Were, too, unknown.

      It might have strown

   Their zest with qualms to see,

As in a glass, Time toss their history

      From zone to zone!