Sparks

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.