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?"