<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=427712" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Delicatessen</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why is that wanton gossip Fame<br> So dumb about this man's affairs?<br>Why do we titter at his name<br> Who come to buy his curious wares? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here is a shop of wonderment.<br> From every land has come a prize;<br>Rich spices from the Orient,<br> And fruit that knew Italian skies, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And figs that ripened by the sea<br> In Smyrna, nuts from hot Brazil,<br>Strange pungent meats from Germany,<br> And currants from a Grecian hill. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He is the lord of goodly things<br> That make the poor man's table gay,<br>Yet of his worth no minstrel sings<br> And on his tomb there is no bay. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Perhaps he lives and dies unpraised,<br> This trafficker in humble sweets,<br>Because his little shops are raised<br> By thousands in the city streets. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet stars in greater numbers shine,<br> And violets in millions grow,<br>And they in many a golden line<br> Are sung, as every child must know. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Perhaps Fame thinks his worried eyes,<br> His wrinkled, shrewd, pathetic face,<br>His shop, and all he sells and buys<br> Are desperately commonplace. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Well, it is true he has no sword<br> To dangle at his booted knees.<br>He leans across a slab of board,<br> And draws his knife and slices cheese. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He never heard of chivalry,<br> He longs for no heroic times;<br>He thinks of pickles, olives, tea,<br> And dollars, nickles, cents and dimes. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">His world has narrow walls, it seems;<br> By counters is his soul confined;<br>His wares are all his hopes and dreams,<br> They are the fabric of his mind. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet -- in a room above the store<br> There is a woman -- and a child<br>Pattered just now across the floor;<br> The shopman looked at him and smiled. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For, once he thrilled with high romance<br> And tuned to love his eager voice.<br>Like any cavalier of France<br> He wooed the maiden of his choice. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now deep in his weary heart<br> Are sacred flames that whitely burn.<br>He has of Heaven's grace a part<br> Who loves, who is beloved in turn. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And when the long day's work is done,<br> (How slow the leaden minutes ran!)<br>Home, with his wife and little son,<br> He is no huckster, but a man! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there are those who grasp his hand,<br> Who drink with him and wish him well.<br>O in no drear and lonely land<br> Shall he who honors friendship dwell. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And in his little shop, who knows<br> What bitter games of war are played?<br>Why, daily on each corner grows<br> A foe to rob him of his trade. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He fights, and for his fireside's sake;<br> He fights for clothing and for bread:<br>The lances of his foemen make<br> A steely halo round his head. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He decks his window artfully,<br> He haggles over paltry sums.<br>In this strange field his war must be<br> And by such blows his triumph comes. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What if no trumpet sounds to call<br> His armed legions to his side?<br>What if, to no ancestral hall<br> He comes in all a victor's pride? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The scene shall never fit the deed.<br> Grotesquely wonders come to pass.<br>The fool shall mount an Arab steed<br> And Jesus ride upon an ass. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">This man has home and child and wife<br> And battle set for every day.<br>This man has God and love and life;<br> These stand, all else shall pass away. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O Carpenter of Nazareth,<br> Whose mother was a village maid,<br>Shall we, Thy children, blow our breath<br> In scorn on any humble trade? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Have pity on our foolishness<br> And give us eyes, that we may see<br>Beneath the shopman's clumsy dress<br> The splendor of humanity!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Joyce+Kilmer">Joyce Kilmer</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=427712" data-title="Delicatessen de Joyce Kilmer" data-description="Why is that wanton gossip Fame So dumb about this man's affairs? Why do we titter at his name Who come to buy his curious wares? Here is a shop of wonderment. From every land has come a prize; Rich spices from the Orient, And fruit that knew..."></div> </div> </div>

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