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 Sidling upon the river, the white boat
Has volleyed with its cannon all the morning,
Shaken the shore towns like a Judgment warning,
Telling the palsied water its demand
That the crime come to the top again, and float,
That the sunk murder rise to the light and land.
Blam! In the noon's perfected brilliance burn Brief blooms of flame, which soil away in smoke; And down below, where slowed concussion broke The umber stroll of waters, water-dust Dreamily powders up, and serves to turn The river surface to a cloudy rust.
Down from his bridge the river captain cries To fire again.
They make the cannon sound; But none of them would wish the murder found, Nor wish in other manner to atone Than booming at their midnight crime, which lies Rotting the river, weighted with a stone.

by Richard Wilbur
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