Classic Poem

Dust when the years are gone,
You are not dust to-day,
But rocks, though winds rage on,
You scorn your own decay.

Denying your foreknown end
You stand, as an age to an hour,
The lizard's immortal friend
And deathless to the flower.

But the smallest winds and rills
Still wear your state to worse;
And you are the jest of the hills,
As they of the universe.