Sparkles from the Wheel

1

Where the city’s ceaseless crowd moves on, the
　　　live-long day,
Withdrawn, I join a group of children watching--I pause
　　　aside with them.

By the curb, toward the edge of the flagging,
A knife-grinder works at his wheel, sharpening a great
　　　knife;
Bending over, he carefully holds it to the stone--by
　　　foot and knee, 5
With measur’d tread, he turns rapidly--As he presses
　　　with light but firm hand,
Forth issue, then, in copious golden jets,
Sparkles from the wheel.

2

The scene, and all its belongings--how they seize and
　　　affect me!
The sad, sharp-chinn’d old man, with worn clothes, and
　　　broad shoulder-band of leather; 10
Myself, effusing and fluid--a phantom curiously floating--
　　　now here absorb’d and arrested;

The group, (an unminded point, set in a vast surrounding;)
The attentive, quiet children--the loud, proud, restive base
　　　of the streets;
The low, hoarse purr of the whirling stone--the light-
　　　press’d blade,
Diffusing, dropping, sideways-darting, in tiny showers of
　　　gold, 15
Sparkles from the wheel.