Picked up a stone, and threw it away.
The stone, it flew,
Past hedges of dew,
Past heaps of hay,
Into the bright sunny day.
It passed towers of mud,
And flowers and buds,
And insects and trees,
Till mother earth beseeched:
"Come down O Little One!
Come into my arms,
Hold me tight and strong,
Cry not for what's gone."
And the little stone, it cried
"Mother earth, I died,
A hundred deaths, and more,
Why did He make me, a stone?
No girl of beauty,
Ever kept me beside,
To love me one day,
But threw me aside,
Or stamped me beneath,
Her beautiful li'll feet,
Or threw me away,
My fate does not sway."
"Oh my poor dearest,
Don't despair in vain,
A little girl's loss,
Is a loving mother's gain
Come into my arms,
And do rest a little while,
And dry up your tears,
Everyone has their trial"
And so the stone,
Leapt back to the ground,
And rested its head,
In a haven 'gain found.
Till one fine day,
In a big heap of weeds,
A lady came forth,
And wrote of the deeds,
Of love's labor lost,
Of the heart's sorrowful tale,
Her pages did fly,
In the merry wind's gale,
And the lady, the gentle soul,
Found a stone on the ground,
A queer little marvel,
Of nature unbound,
Unmoving and silent,
And yet a free spirit,
Bound not by the soil,
Or the weeds living near it,
And pick she did,
This lonely little stone,
And placed it on her,
Life's memories unknown,
And as if from a slumber,
The little spirit awoke,
And found itself amongst,
Memories of old,
Of tales both sad,
And beautiful and mad,
Of love's labour lost,
And thoughts that were glad,
She kept him on the pages,
The wind did try to blow,
But knowing it had a purpose,
The little stone did hold,
In a world unforgiving,
A small, sad stone,
Had found its story,
And a place, called home.
