To a Greek Bootblack

IN a dusk and scant retreat,
Fronting on the noisy street,
Six lads, quick of hands and feet,
Ply a trade for song unmeet,
In the passer’s careless view:
I, from Saxon loins that rose —
Churl or swain or serf — who knows ? —
High-reared, propping heels and toes,
Brood in meditant repose
O’er the Greek who blacks my shoe.

Round black head that, fronts my knees,
Cheeks whose tint might tempt the bees,

Profile scarcely formed to please
Myron or Praxiteles,
Yet of dainty mould and coy;
Eyes whose owner ne’er may guess
What appealing tenderness,
Dream-like in their veiled recess,
Deep and dark their spheres express —
Longings alien to the boy.

Reascends the ancient æon:
Winds that o’er the broad Ægæan,n
Skyward lift the joyous psean.
Chanted as with pipes Pandman
O’er the Persian’s broken line;
Trail of purple-hemmed himations,
Foam and fragrance of libations,
Viols, harp and flute vibrations,
Olives, and the Chian vine.

Not for him the dream is spun;
From his lips, unheeding one,
In a hasting torrent run
Accents strange to Xenophon,
Tones Cithæron never knew:
What to him the ages’ sickle ?
What the thought that time is fickle ?
Brisk, he takes the proffered nickel;
Eager, seeks the waiting shoe.

Meagre, in this narrowed sluice,
Flows the rich-hued Attic juice;
Shrunken ward of fallen Zeus,
I thy sandal should unloose —
Sandals — they are vanished too !
Sad eclipse of antique splendor !
Poor blue shirt and crossed suspender !
Tribute gladly would I render;
Tears, or smiles than tears more tender—
Little Greek that blacks my shoe.