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!