This steel may well outlive you.
The kiss of its cool, aching head—
ring-stunned, dumb and frozen.
The handle is no matter.
When it splinters like a struck bone,
burn it out. Take a new shaft made of oak,
drive a wedge to mate them firm.
A hammer wants for such pure contact—
the true swing falling through each nail
as if it were not there—
so, too, the hand that drives it down,
shivered in the blunt and striking grace.