About this Poem 

"Stones" appeared in Others: An Anthology of the New Verse (Alfred A. Knopf, 1917).

Stones

It is best now
to give suffering its way with me,
like a sea with a stone,
and let the spray which is others' joy—
the spray dancing on those
I bumped against
while bounding and tumbling and rolling here—
give me content.

Suffering
carves smoothness
which cannot cut any longer—
should I roll again. 

This poem is in the public domain.

This poem is in the public domain.

Alfred Kreymborg

Alfred Kreymborg

Alfred Kreymborg was born on December 10, 1883, in New York City.

by this poet

poem

The sky
is that beautiful old parchment
in which the sun
and the moon
keep their diary.
To read it all,
one must be a linguist
more learned than Father Wisdom;
and a visionary
more clairvoyant than Mother Dream.
But to feel it,
one must be an apostle:
one

poem
Our door was shut to the noon-day heat.
We could not see him.
We might not have heard him either—
Resting, dozing, dreaming pleasantly.
But his step was tremendous—
Are mountains on the march?

He was no man who passed;
But a great faithful horse
Dragging a load
Up the hill.
poem

Wind:
Why do you play
that long beautiful adagio,
that archaic air,
to-night
Will it never end?
Or is it the beginning,
some prelude you seek?

Is it a tale you strum?
Yesterday, yesterday—
Have you no more for us?

Wind:
Play on.
There is