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 honours 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 arméd 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 splendour 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 splendours 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