Joseph Warren Beach
You that but seek your modest rolls and coffee,When you have passed the bar, and have salutedIts watchful madam, then pray enter softlyThe inner chamber, even as one who treadsThe haunts of mating birds, and watch discreetlyOver your paper’s edge. There in the corner,Obscure, ensconced behind the uncovered table,A man and woman keep their silent tryst.Outside the morning floods the pavement sweetly;Yonder aloft a maid throws back the shutters;The hucksters utter modulated criesAs wistful as some old pathetic ballad.Within the brooding lovers, unaware,Sit quiet hand in hand, or in low whispersCommunicate a more articulate love.Sometimes she plays with strings and, gently leaningAgainst his shoulder, shows him childish tricks.She has not touched the glass of milk before her,Her breakfast and the price of their admittance.She has a look devoted and confidingAnd might be pretty were not life so hard.But he, gaunt as his rusty bicycleThat stands against the table, and with featuresSo drawn and stark, has only futile strength.The love they cherish in this stolen meetingThrough all the day that follows makes her sweeter,And him perhaps it only leaves more bitter.But you that have not love at all, old menThat warm your fingers by this fire, discreetlyPlay out your morning game of dominoes.
You that but seek your modest rolls and coffee,When you have passed the bar, and have salutedIts watchful madam, then pray enter softlyThe inner chamber, even as one who treadsThe haunts of mating birds, and watch discreetlyOver your paper’s edge. There in the corner,Obscure, ensconced behind the uncovered table,A man and woman keep their silent tryst.Outside the morning floods the pavement sweetly;Yonder aloft a maid throws back the shutters;The hucksters utter modulated criesAs wistful as some old pathetic ballad.Within the brooding lovers, unaware,Sit quiet hand in hand, or in low whispersCommunicate a more articulate love.Sometimes she plays with strings and, gently leaningAgainst his shoulder, shows him childish tricks.She has not touched the glass of milk before her,Her breakfast and the price of their admittance.She has a look devoted and confidingAnd might be pretty were not life so hard.But he, gaunt as his rusty bicycleThat stands against the table, and with featuresSo drawn and stark, has only futile strength.The love they cherish in this stolen meetingThrough all the day that follows makes her sweeter,And him perhaps it only leaves more bitter.But you that have not love at all, old menThat warm your fingers by this fire, discreetlyPlay out your morning game of dominoes.
You that but seek your modest rolls and coffee,When you have passed the bar, and have salutedIts watchful madam, then pray enter softlyThe inner chamber, even as one who treadsThe haunts of mating birds, and watch discreetlyOver your paper’s edge. There in the corner,Obscure, ensconced behind the uncovered table,A man and woman keep their silent tryst.Outside the morning floods the pavement sweetly;Yonder aloft a maid throws back the shutters;The hucksters utter modulated criesAs wistful as some old pathetic ballad.Within the brooding lovers, unaware,Sit quiet hand in hand, or in low whispersCommunicate a more articulate love.Sometimes she plays with strings and, gently leaningAgainst his shoulder, shows him childish tricks.She has not touched the glass of milk before her,Her breakfast and the price of their admittance.She has a look devoted and confidingAnd might be pretty were not life so hard.But he, gaunt as his rusty bicycleThat stands against the table, and with featuresSo drawn and stark, has only futile strength.The love they cherish in this stolen meetingThrough all the day that follows makes her sweeter,And him perhaps it only leaves more bitter.But you that have not love at all, old menThat warm your fingers by this fire, discreetlyPlay out your morning game of dominoes.
You that but seek your modest rolls and coffee,
When you have passed the bar, and have saluted
Its watchful madam, then pray enter softly
The inner chamber, even as one who treads
The haunts of mating birds, and watch discreetly
Over your paper’s edge. There in the corner,
Obscure, ensconced behind the uncovered table,
A man and woman keep their silent tryst.
Outside the morning floods the pavement sweetly;
Yonder aloft a maid throws back the shutters;
The hucksters utter modulated cries
As wistful as some old pathetic ballad.
Within the brooding lovers, unaware,
Sit quiet hand in hand, or in low whispers
Communicate a more articulate love.
Sometimes she plays with strings and, gently leaning
Against his shoulder, shows him childish tricks.
She has not touched the glass of milk before her,
Her breakfast and the price of their admittance.
She has a look devoted and confiding
And might be pretty were not life so hard.
But he, gaunt as his rusty bicycle
That stands against the table, and with features
So drawn and stark, has only futile strength.
The love they cherish in this stolen meeting
Through all the day that follows makes her sweeter,
And him perhaps it only leaves more bitter.
But you that have not love at all, old men
That warm your fingers by this fire, discreetly
Play out your morning game of dominoes.
Sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea,Gazing from his window, this is what you see:A cat that snaps at flies; a track leading downBy log-built shanties gray and brown;The corner of a barn, and tangled lines of fenceOf rough-hewn pickets standing dense;The ghost of a tree on a dull, wet day;And the blanket fog where lies the bay.But when he’s seen the last of you,Sitting in his rocker, what’shisview?(For there he sits, day in, day out,Nursing his leg—and his dreams, no doubt.)The snow-slide up behind thegaard;The farm beside old Trondjemfjord;Daughters seven with their cold blue eyes,And the great pine where his father lies;The boat that brought him over the sea;And the toothless woman who makes his tea.(Their picture, framed on the rough log wall,Proves she had teeth when he was tall.)He sees the balsam thick on the hill,And all he’s cleared with a stubborn will.And last he sees the full-grown sonFor whom he hoards what he has won.You saw little worth the strife:What he sees is one man’s life.
Sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea,Gazing from his window, this is what you see:A cat that snaps at flies; a track leading downBy log-built shanties gray and brown;The corner of a barn, and tangled lines of fenceOf rough-hewn pickets standing dense;The ghost of a tree on a dull, wet day;And the blanket fog where lies the bay.But when he’s seen the last of you,Sitting in his rocker, what’shisview?(For there he sits, day in, day out,Nursing his leg—and his dreams, no doubt.)The snow-slide up behind thegaard;The farm beside old Trondjemfjord;Daughters seven with their cold blue eyes,And the great pine where his father lies;The boat that brought him over the sea;And the toothless woman who makes his tea.(Their picture, framed on the rough log wall,Proves she had teeth when he was tall.)He sees the balsam thick on the hill,And all he’s cleared with a stubborn will.And last he sees the full-grown sonFor whom he hoards what he has won.You saw little worth the strife:What he sees is one man’s life.
Sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea,Gazing from his window, this is what you see:
Sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea,
Gazing from his window, this is what you see:
A cat that snaps at flies; a track leading downBy log-built shanties gray and brown;
A cat that snaps at flies; a track leading down
By log-built shanties gray and brown;
The corner of a barn, and tangled lines of fenceOf rough-hewn pickets standing dense;
The corner of a barn, and tangled lines of fence
Of rough-hewn pickets standing dense;
The ghost of a tree on a dull, wet day;And the blanket fog where lies the bay.
The ghost of a tree on a dull, wet day;
And the blanket fog where lies the bay.
But when he’s seen the last of you,Sitting in his rocker, what’shisview?
But when he’s seen the last of you,
Sitting in his rocker, what’shisview?
(For there he sits, day in, day out,Nursing his leg—and his dreams, no doubt.)
(For there he sits, day in, day out,
Nursing his leg—and his dreams, no doubt.)
The snow-slide up behind thegaard;The farm beside old Trondjemfjord;
The snow-slide up behind thegaard;
The farm beside old Trondjemfjord;
Daughters seven with their cold blue eyes,And the great pine where his father lies;
Daughters seven with their cold blue eyes,
And the great pine where his father lies;
The boat that brought him over the sea;And the toothless woman who makes his tea.
The boat that brought him over the sea;
And the toothless woman who makes his tea.
(Their picture, framed on the rough log wall,Proves she had teeth when he was tall.)
(Their picture, framed on the rough log wall,
Proves she had teeth when he was tall.)
He sees the balsam thick on the hill,And all he’s cleared with a stubborn will.
He sees the balsam thick on the hill,
And all he’s cleared with a stubborn will.
And last he sees the full-grown sonFor whom he hoards what he has won.
And last he sees the full-grown son
For whom he hoards what he has won.
You saw little worth the strife:What he sees is one man’s life.
You saw little worth the strife:
What he sees is one man’s life.