Pale-green and black and bronze and grey,
In broken arabesque and foliate star,
They cling, so closely grown
Upon the sombre stone
That one would deem they are
As much a part thereof as the design
Is part of some old porcelain from Cathay—
Some vase of Tang or Ming
Patterned with blossoms intricate and fine
And leaves of alien spring
Exempt forever from the year's decay.
Old too they seem and with the stones coeval—
Fraught with the stillness and the mystery
Of time not known to man;
Like runes and pentacles of a primeval
Unhuman wizardry
That none may use nor scan.