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The Ghetto and Other Poems by Lola Ridge
page 14 of 75 (18%)
The meager cotton with its dismal flower--
But with his skinny hands
That hover like two hawks
Above some luscious meat,
He fingers lovingly each calico,
As though it were a gorgeous shawl,
Or costly vesture
Wrought in silken thread,
Or strange bright carpet
Made for sandaled feet...

Here an old grey scholar stands.
His brooding eyes--
That hold long vistas without end
Of caravans and trees and roads,
And cities dwindling in remembrance--
Bend mostly on his tapes and thread.

What if they tweak his beard--
These raw young seed of Israel
Who have no backward vision in their eyes--
And mock him as he sways
Above the sunken arches of his feet--
They find no peg to hang their taunts upon.
His soul is like a rock
That bears a front worn smooth
By the coarse friction of the sea,
And, unperturbed, he keeps his bitter peace.

What if a rigid arm and stuffed blue shape,
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