 | Poems |  |
27
THE KNIFEGRINDER.
I met a Knifegrinder, a glorious fellow,Upon the dusty highway, and I stood
And saw him push his one-wheeled thing of wood
Before him lustily, and heard him bellow
With a strong voice, whole-lung'd and loud and mellow,
For work with a becoming hardihood:
His cheek was brown, by many a summer hued,
And his rough foxy beard was fring'd with yellow.
And, if you will believe me, as I gazed
'Twas with both praise and envy: here methought
Is happiness on no foundation raised
External to the mind, but safely wrought
In self; and then the manliness I praised
With which he met the meanness of his lot.
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