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TREES AND OTHER POEMS

DELICATESSEN (continued) Perhaps he lives and dies unpraised,

This trafficker in humble sweets,

Because his little shops are raised

By thousands in the city streets.

Yet stars in greater numbers shine,

And violets in millions grow,

And they in many a golden line

Are sung, as every child must know.

Perhaps Fame thinks his worried eyes,

His wrinkled, shrewd, pathetic face,

His shop, and all he sells and buys

Are desperately commonplace.

Well, it is true he has no sword

To dangle at his booted knees.

He leans across a slab of board,

And draws his knife and slices cheese.

He never heard of chivalry,

He longs for no heroic times;

He thinks of pickles, olives, tea,

And dollars, nickles, cents and dimes.

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