The Arrowhead

In my backyard, pulled freshly from the earth,
The Arrowhead had opened up a cataract
Of beauties and remembrances of worth,
Traditions, as traditions are, abstract
But vivid as in flesh within my mind.
When scholars of the Renaissance revived
The Greco-Roman glories past declined,
Or when to Keats, Chapman's Homer arrived:
I comprehend now to some small degree
Exactly how they felt, as in their glee
The possibilities grew from the ground
As if the Arrowhead that I had found
Was not obsidian, but dragon's tooth,
And how those poets of forgotten days
Must have, while struggling to capture truth,
Seen countless soldiers warring in their gaze;
A stream of natural ideas that flow
And never cease, but run to where none knows.

July 12