1 WHERE the cityâ€™s ceaseless crowd moves on, the live-long day, Withdrawn, I join a group of children watchingâ€”I pause aside with them.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 stoneâ€”by foot and knee, With measurâ€™d tread, he turns rapidlyâ€”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 belongingsâ€”how they seize and affect me! The sad, sharp-chinnâ€™d old man, with worn clothes, and broad shoulder-band of leather; Myself, effusing and fluidâ€”a phantom curiously floatingâ€”now here absorbâ€™d and arrested;
The group, (an unminded point, set in a vast surrounding;) The attentive, quiet childrenâ€”the loud, proud, restive base of the streets; The low, hoarse purr of the whirling stoneâ€”the light-pressâ€™d blade, Diffusing, dropping, sideways-darting, in tiny showers of gold, Sparkles from the wheel.