In the Antique Shop
All day the silver-headed craftsman bends
Over the broken chain, the gemless rings,
The voiceless clock, the fragile fan, and mends
With delicate fingers rare broken things.
I gaze on him, on gems and glimmering gold,
See light restoring touches, magic skill;
Till to my heart come strange imaginings
Of ruined lives I know, shattered and still.
O Craftsman! Here is mettle, dull and old;
Look on these broken lives. Can’st thou remold?
Can’st thou, with color, love designs refill—
Bring beauty out of sorrow’s patternings?