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