Silversmith

Even as he galloped down the Concord road,

He could not miss the lines the larches made

Against the silver pattern of the stars;

Nor fail to know that trilliums were laid

In small three-cornered motifs of delight

Across the filigree of last year's leaves,

. Or that an owl spoke evenly through the night.

Rebellion seethed in him, and his heart tore,

To the sharp rhythm of his horse's feet,

With a sick sense of the imminence of war.

War made a singing, dreadful and somehow sweet,

Among the delicate maples, veiled with red.

Something a good smith must make cannon for.

Much larger forges and much hotter fires;

Much brass and iron for crucibles that had known

Pewter-burnished and gray as winter skies,

Silver-like winter planets shining alone.

A steadfast closing of sharp and sensitive eyes

To all hepaticas, glimmering in the grass;

A laying of dear small banners all aside,

Along with patterns and beautiful desires.

That would be war, but war at last would pass.

Any brave man could ride the Concord road,

Troubling with "Oyez" the untroubled dark.

Any good smith could make a gun for war,

And the ball too, and powder for the spark.

But he could etch his name against all time,

In silver, beside Cellini's and the rest,

With a hammer and chisel-

Had he but known - a rhyme,

Droned over and over by boys and girls in school,

Would leave him nothing but the Concord road!

(Any brave man could ride the Concord road!)

He only cared that just one porringer,

As curved as music and vaulted like a flower,

Or just one platter, gallant and austere,

Might turn in reverent hands until we saw

Stamped against time-in silver-Paul Revere.