Trees and Other Poems — 2 - Delicatessen * Servant Girl and Grocer's Boy * Wealth * Martin * The Apartment House
Delicatessen Why is that wanton gossip Fame So dumb about this man's affairs?
Why do we titter at his name Who come to buy his curious wares?
Here is a shop of wonderment.
From every land has come a prize;
Rich spices from the Orient, And fruit that knew Italian skies, And figs that ripened by the sea In Smyrna, nuts from hot Brazil, Strange pungent meats from Germany, And currants from a Grecian hill.
He is the lord of goodly things That make the poor man's table gay, Yet of his worth no minstrel sings And on his tomb there is no bay.
Perhaps he lives and dies unpraised, This trafficker in humble sweets, Because his little shops are raised By thousands in the city streets.
Yet stars in greater numbers shine, And violets in millions grow, And they in many a golden line Are sung, as every child must know.
Perhaps Fame thinks his worried eyes, His wrinkled, shrewd, pathetic face, His shop, and all he sells and buys Are desperately commonplace.
Well, it is true he has no sword To dangle at his booted knees.
He leans across a slab of board, And draws his knife and slices cheese.
He never heard of chivalry, He longs for no heroic times;
He thinks of pickles, olives, tea, And dollars, nickles, cents and dimes.
His world has narrow walls, it seems;
By counters is his soul confined;
His wares are all his hopes and dreams, They are the fabric of his mind.
Yet -- in a room above the store There is a woman -- and a child Pattered just now across the floor;
The shopman looked at him and smiled.
For, once he thrilled with high romance And tuned to love his eager voice.
Like any cavalier of France He wooed the maiden of his choice.
And now deep in his weary heart Are sacred flames that whitely burn.
He has of Heaven's grace a part Who loves, who is beloved in turn.
And when the long day's work is done, (How slow the leaden minutes ran!
) Home, with his wife and little son, He is no huckster, but a man!
And there are those who grasp his hand, Who drink with him and wish him well.
O in no drear and lonely land Shall he who honors friendship dwell.
And in his little shop, who knows What bitter games of war are played?
Why, daily on each corner grows A foe to rob him of his trade.
He fights, and for his fireside's sake;
He fights for clothing and for bread: The lances of his foemen make A steely halo round his head.
He decks his window artfully, He haggles over paltry sums.
In this strange field his war must be And by such blows his triumph comes.
What if no trumpet sounds to call His armed legions to his side?
What if, to no ancestral hall He comes in all a victor's pride?
The scene shall never fit the deed.
Grotesquely wonders come to pass.
The fool shall mount an Arab steed And Jesus ride upon an ass.
This man has home and child and wife And battle set for every day.
This man has God and love and life;
These stand, all else shall pass away.
O Carpenter of Nazareth, Whose mother was a village maid, Shall we, Thy children, blow our breath In scorn on any humble trade?
Have pity on our foolishness And give us eyes, that we may see Beneath the shopman's clumsy dress The splendor of humanity!
Servant Girl and Grocer's Boy Her lips' remark was: "Oh, you kid!"
Her soul spoke thus (I know it did): "O king of realms of endless joy, My own, my golden grocer's boy, I am a princess forced to dwell Within a lonely kitchen cell, While you go dashing through the land With loveliness on every hand.
Your whistle strikes my eager ears Like music of the choiring spheres.
The mighty earth grows faint and reels Beneath your thundering wagon wheels.
How keenly, perilously sweet To cling upon that swaying seat!
How happy she who by your side May share the splendors of that ride!
Ah, if you will not take my hand And bear me off across the land, Then, traveller from Arcady, Remain awhile and comfort me.
What other maiden can you find So young and delicate and kind?"
Her lips' remark was: "Oh, you kid!"
Her soul spoke thus (I know it did).
Wealth (For Aline) From what old ballad, or from what rich frame Did you descend to glorify the earth?
Was it from Chaucer's singing book you came?
Or did Watteau's small brushes give you birth?
Nothing so exquisite as that slight hand Could Raphael or Leonardo trace.
Nor could the poets know in Fairyland The changing wonder of your lyric face.
I would possess a host of lovely things, But I am poor and such joys may not be.
So God who lifts the poor and humbles kings Sent loveliness itself to dwell with me.
Martin When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of Shadowland Beyond the trackless purple sea Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me.
Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing.
He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft grey hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair.
How good that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty.
How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the dull and sombre earth.
Some people ask: "What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story?"
Martin?
Why, he exhaled romance, And wore an overcoat of glory.
A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive ancient child.
Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation?
Rich joy and love he got and gave;
His heart was merry as his dress;
Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success!
The Apartment House Severe against the pleasant arc of sky The great stone box is cruelly displayed.
The street becomes more dreary from its shade, And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die.
Here sullen convicts in their chains might lie, Or slaves toil dumbly at some dreary trade.
How worse than folly is their labor made Who cleft the rocks that this might rise on high!
Yet, as I look, I see a woman's face Gleam from a window far above the street.
This is a house of homes, a sacred place, By human passion made divinely sweet.
How all the building thrills with sudden grace Beneath the magic of Love's golden feet!
As Winds That Blow Against A Star
