Scissors Grinder
“’Twas long ago” they said
Of the country whence I came,
“Greece is a dream that is dead,
Athens only a name!”
Yet on this April day
As I go through the towns,
I see soft Thessaly
On these New England downs.
I see the lilied plains
Where the white cranes droop their bills;
And the moving cattle trains
Winding into the hills;
While the farmer drums his bees,
And the donkey shakes his bells
Under the olive trees
Where the Bay of Corinth swells,
To great blue-silver gate
Where the sea-bound temples wait,
And the Eleusinian way
Mistily winds the bay.
On Knossos’ shady knolls
I see the columned tiers;
And the cool Ionic scrolls
Throb to Olympian cheers.
I see a gravelled stream
Winding Olympian reeds;
Again the Scythian dream
Its wagoned people leads.
The river-god drifts on,
Raising a poppied head;
A pipe sounds halcyon—
Nothing of Greece is dead...!
But I, who walk the towns
To sharpen knives at the gate,
Feel sharper knives in the frown
Of this New World’s estimate!