The Lesser Craftsman

Today I bought a warrior’s head
Of carved and polished ebony,
And knew its womb had been the heart
Of some tall forest tree.

A face, inscrutable by day,
The lamplight lends its almond eyes
A gleam, and gives those lips a twist
Both cynical and wise.

And, fingering the satin, dark,
And egg-shell moulding of the brow,
The lovely line of throat and chin,
I know most surely how

In some far Congo village, he
Who carved it, felt the same keen shaft
Of joy, as I who weave these lines,
And, likewise, loved his craft.

And setting them both side by side.
His ebon head, the song I sing,
I see at once the humbler and
The less enduring thing.