. . .

I sit silent, cold alone

the path you trod–the constant stone

that never speaks or feels the prod

of human hearts, or sees their nod.

So quietly I bear the load

the stone of house, or open road.

–

But here today I feel the thrill

of royalty, of ancient will

how beautiful the feet and trod

this son of man, this son of God.

And as the children praise and shout

I long like life to sing it out.

. . .