The Scissors-grinder

The old man had his box and wheel          For grinding knives and shears.          No doubt his bell in village streets          Was joy to children's ears.          And I bethought me of my youth          When such men came around,          And times I asked them in, quite sure          The scissors should be ground.          The old man turned and spoke to me,          His face at last in view.          And then I thought those curious eyes          Were eyes that once I knew.          "The moon is but an emery-wheel          To whet the sword of God,"          He said.    "And here beside my fire          I stretch upon the sod          Each night, and dream, and watch the stars          And watch the ghost-clouds go.          And see that sword of God in Heaven          A-waving to and fro.          I see that sword each century, friend.          It means the world-war comes          With all its bloody, wicked chiefs          And hate-inflaming drums.          Men talk of peace, but I have seen          That emery-wheel turn round.          The voice of Abel cries again          To God from out the ground.          The ditches must flow red, the plague          Go stark and screaming by          Each time that sword of God takes edge          Within the midnight sky.          And those that scorned their brothers here          And sowed a wind of shame          Will reap the whirlwind as of old          And face relentless flame."          And thus the scissors-grinder spoke,          His face at last in view.          And there beside the railroad bridge          I saw the wandering Jew.