THE STREET OF SHOES

Now, while the Bulgars creep in stealthy crews To Macedonian borders, do they stay In Athens as they were one April day— The busy cobblers in “The Street of Shoes”? I wonder: for the faces leaning there, Had Oriental heat, the hands that sewed Had look of readiness; some skillful code The hammers rapped on leather-scented air. The old shoemakers, hung about with hide In cave-like booths, with beads and fringe adrip, Muttered their restless words beneath the clip Of shoe-laces, or hammered, sombre-eyed; Red-capped, white-bearded, keen for petty strife, They hammered and they stitched; while, might and main Down their small, narrow, red-morocco lane, They cut the scarlet shoes with gleaming knife. How would it go, if mad Bulgarian hordes Invaded here with pillage and abuse? I like to think that in the Street of Shoes Those old, gnarled hands would fiercely leap to swords! I love to think how fiery faces there Would light like lurid skies before the storm, And that Athenian shoemakers would swarm To guard the city with ferocious care. Then, if the foe to trample Athens choose, I pity them if those Greek cobblers still Stick to their lasts. These would not wait to spill A brighter red than red-morocco shoes! Bulgars would know how nimble fingers use Flayed skin to keep the needles very bright; They would learn much before they took their flight Forever from the valiant Street of Shoes!