Every stone, whether kicked or thrown, tends to the bottom of a hill In stops and starts they roll along, at every chance determined To reach the valley, where they can rest No further drops in view There contented lay the stones slowly getting buried First the moss and then the soil heap round them happy graves Till they are known to none but earth and eons pass as days. Thus all contented beings lay, who have no yearnings in them If you are still a Rolling Stone passing down the hill, count yourself a lucky one that your content is unfulfilled For malcontent comes with a view and adventures to be had You’ll have your eons in the dirt, but till then just be glad
