And will you cut a stone for him,
To set above his head?
And will you cut a stone for him—
A stone for him? she said.

Three days before a splintered rock
Had struck her lover dead—
Had struck him in the quarry dead,
Where, careless of the warning call,
He loitered while the shot was fired—
A lively stripling brave and tall,
And sure of all his heart desired. . . .
A flash, a shock,
A rumbling fall …
And broken 'neath the broken rock,
A lifeless heap with face of clay,
And still as any stone, he lay
With eyes that saw the end of all.

I went to break the news to her,
And I could hear my own heart beat
With dread of what my lips might say;
But some poor fool had sped before
And, flinging wide her father's door,
Had blurted out the news to her,
Had struck her lover dead for her,
Had struck the girl's heart dead in her,
Had struck life lifeless at a word
And dropped it at her feet,
Then hurried on his witless way,
Scarce knowing she had heard.
And when I came she stood alone—
A woman turned to stone,
And though no word at all she said,
I knew that all was known.

Because her heart was dead
She did not sigh nor moan.
His mother wept:
She could not weep.
Her lover slept:
She could not sleep.
Three days, three nights,
She did not stir:
Three days, three nights,
Were one to her,
Who never closed her eyes
From sunset to sunrise,
From dawn to evenfall,
Her tearless staring eyes
That, seeing naught, saw all.

The fourth night when I came from work
I found her at my door.
And will you cut a stone for him?
She said, and spoke no more,
But followed me as I went in,
And sank upon a chair,
And fixed her grey eyes on my face
With still unseeing stare.
And as she waited patiently
I could not bear to feel
Those still grey eyes that followed me,
Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,
Those eyes that sucked the breath from me,
And curdled the warm blood in me,
Those eyes that cut me to the bone
And pierced my marrow like cold steel.

And so I rose and sought a stone,
And cut it smooth and square;
And as I worked she sat and watched
Beside me in her chair.
Night after night by candlelight
I cut her lover's name;
Night after night so still and white
And like a ghost she came,
And sat beside me in her chair
And watched with eyes aflame.

She eyed each stroke,
And hardly stirred:
She never spoke
A single word:
And not a sound or murmur broke
The quiet save the mallet-stroke.

With still eyes ever on my hands,
With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,
My wincing over-wearied hands,
She watched with bloodless lips apart
And silent indrawn breath;
And every stroke my chisel cut,
Death cut still deeper in her heart—
The two of us were chiselling
Together, I and death.

And when at length the job was done
And I had laid the mallet by,
As if at last her peace were won
She breathed his name, and with a sigh
Passed slowly through the open door,
And never crossed my threshold more.

Next night I laboured late, alone,
To cut her name too on the stone.