The Ghetto IV

Calicoes and furs,Pocket-books and scarfs,Razor strops and knives(Patterns in check...)

Olive hands and russet head,Pickles red and coppery,Green pickles, brown pickles,(Patterns in tapestry...)

Coral beads, blue beads,Beads of pearl and amber,Gewgaws, beauty pins--Bijoutry for chits--Darting rays of violet,Amethyst and jade...All the colors out to play,Jumbled iridescently...(Patterns in stained glassShivered into bits!)

Nooses of gay ribbonTugging at one's sleeve,Dainty little gartersHanging out their sign...Here a pout of frilly things--There a sonsy feather...(White beards, black beardsLike knots in the weave...)

And ah, the little babies--Shiny black-eyed babies--(Half a million pink toesWriggling altogether.)Baskets full of babiesLike grapes on a vine.

Mothers waddling in and out,Making all things right--Picking up the slipped threadsIn Grand street at night--Grand street like a great bazaar,Crowded like a float,Bulging like a crazy quiltStretched on a line.

But nearer seenThis litter of the EastTakes on a garbled majesty.

The herded stallsIn dissolute array...The glitter and the jumbled fineryAnd strangely juxtaposedCans, paper, ragsAnd colors decomposing,Faded like old hair,With flashes of barbaric huesAnd eyes of mystery...FlungLike an ancient tapestry of motley weaveUpon the open wall of this new land.

Here, a tawny-headed girl...Lemons in a greenish brothAnd a huge earthen bowlBy a bronzed merchantWith a tall black lamb's wool cap upon his head...He has no glance for her.His thrifty eyesBend--glittering, intentTheir hoarded looksUpon his merchandise,As though it were some splendid clothOr sumptuous raimentStitched in gold and red...

He seldom talksSave of the goods he spreads--The meager cotton with its dismal flower--But with his skinny handsThat hover like two hawksAbove some luscious meat,He fingers lovingly each calico,As though it were a gorgeous shawl,Or costly vestureWrought in silken thread,Or strange bright carpetMade for sandaled feet...

Here an old grey scholar stands.His brooding eyes--That hold long vistas without endOf caravans and trees and roads,And cities dwindling in remembrance--Bend mostly on his tapes and thread.

What if they tweak his beard--These raw young seed of IsraelWho have no backward vision in their eyes--And mock him as he swaysAbove the sunken arches of his feet--They find no peg to hang their taunts upon.His soul is like a rockThat bears a front worn smoothBy the coarse friction of the sea,And, unperturbed, he keeps his bitter peace.

What if a rigid arm and stuffed blue shape,Backed by a nickel starDoes prod him on,Taking his proud patience for humility...All gutters are as oneTo that old race that has been thrustFrom off the curbstones of the world...And he smiles with the pale ironyOf one who holdsThe wisdom of the Talmud stored awayIn his mind's lavender.

But this young trader,Born to trade as to a caul,Peddles the notions of the hour.The gestures of the craft are hisAnd all the loreAs when to hold, withdraw, persuade, advance...And be it gum or flags,Or clean-all or the newest thing in tags,Demand goes to him as the bee to flower.And he--appraisingAll who come and goWith his amazingSlight-of-mind and glanceAnd nimble thoughtAnd nature balanced like the scales at nought--Looks Westward where the trade-lights glow,And sees his vision rise--A tape-ruled vision,Circumscribed in stone--Some fifty stories to the skies.