(Two who became a story)

        By the Runic Stone
   They sat, where the grass sloped down,
And chattered, he white-hatted, she in brown,
        Pink-faced, breeze-blown.

        Rapt there alone
   In the transport of talking so
In such a place, there was nothing to let them know
        What hours had flown.

        And the die thrown
   By them heedlessly there, the dent
It was to cut in their encompassment,
        Were, too, unknown.

        It might have strown
   Their zest with qualms to see,
As in a glass, Time toss their history
        From zone to zone!