As much as a stone is not a rock,
Nor a rock a little pebble,
The beach where seagulls flock,
The ingredients more than treble,
That into tides drift washed away,
Devoured by swirling brine,
To dark depths to decay,
A part of passing time,
Which lingers as it flees,
Moves not yet it departs,
Defining all the tree's,
And all the broken hearts,
And we when it's to late,
Stand at the final gate;
And wait!