Sparks flying over beaten metal
In the gloom of a smithy;
Drops of dew upon a petal
In the grandeur of a city;

Strike a bell and there is music
In the late-spring streets,
But there is a sound of pity
When the blacksmith beats;

The sighs of the lovesick,
The sparkling of artificial stars,
The garden that grows pretty
Amid the honking of cars.

Michael Shindler

Michael Shindler is a writer living in Washington, DC. His work has been published in outlets including The American Conservative, Church Life, University Bookman, American Spectator, and New English Review. Follow him on Twitter: @MichaelShindler.

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