COLD GREY STONE . . . CHILLON
Gloomy pile of cold grey stone
Standing silent grim and lone!
Your foundation is hewn from a giant block
From the very heart of the solid rock.
From the waves of Geneva your turrets rise,
They catch the light from the blue Swiss skies,
Over their roofs the sun may beat
But never a ray of his welcome heat
Can pierce the gloom of your stony walls,
Or blot out the record your past recalls.
I noted the print in your cold stone floor
Where Bonnivard paced two years or more,
Your gloomy arches reaching up
In the darkness, like an inverted cup,
Your torture chamber and cruel block
Where heads were severed on the serried rock . .
It froze the blood in the heart of me,
And I wondered how such things could be.
Grim grey relic of ages past
In Geneva’s waters bedded fast!
A part of you I call my own. . .
A small, small fragment
Of cold grey stone.