American Poetry 1922/The Rock
This rock, too, was a word;
A word of flame and force when that which hurled
The stars into their places in the night
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.