Page:American Poetry 1922.djvu/142



rock, too, was a word; A word of flame and force when that which hurled The stars into their places in the night First stirred.

And, in the summer's heat, Lay not your hand on it, for while the iron hours beat Gray anvils in the sky, it glows again With unfulfilled desire.

Touch it not; let it stand Ragged, forlorn, still looking in the land; The dry blue chaos of mountains in the distance, The slender blades of grass it shelters are Its own dark thoughts of what is near and far. Your thoughts are yours, too; naked let them stand. 128