The Ghetto and Other Poems by Lola Ridge
page 14 of 75 (18%)
page 14 of 75 (18%)
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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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