Trees, and Other Poems

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!