When the lemon yellow of a doubtful flower tells lies
And the hush pink plum blossoms first fail to surmise
A touch and a kiss turn to stone.
When the steep turn toward the dark cherry dyes
And find winkle’s wake still seeping under the sash
A drink and a dress turn to stone.
To turn to stone is not to die and worm away
A stone never slept nor arose
A stone is a stone is a stone is a stone.
When knickknacks walk and talk and wingding
The livelong night no wonder
A flower turns to stone.
Hearths are made of stone, and wheels, and paths,
And walls, and dwellings, and churches, and busts.
A stone thrown skiffles across water and plops.
When a shuck of stone falls from the sky
Not a soft place on the land to nest
A tempest has turned to stone.
When in spring one feels petrified
Curl and pit and weigh and hurl
Slink and creep and push and pull.
When the angels of spring go stone
Old stones erupt in new waves
And lyrical flowers woe no bloom.
The Coming of the Toads 