1
WHERE the citys ceaseless crowd moves on, the live-long day,
Withdrawn, I join a group of children watchingI pause aside with them.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 stoneby foot and knee,
With measurd tread, he turns rapidlyAs he presses with light but firm hand,
Forth issue, then, in copious golden jets,
Sparkles from the wheel.
2
The scene, and all its belongingshow they seize and affect me!
The sad, sharp-chinnd old man, with worn clothes, and broad shoulder-band of
leather;
Myself, effusing and fluida phantom curiously floatingnow here absorbd
and
arrested;
The group, (an unminded point, set in a vast surrounding;)
The attentive, quiet childrenthe loud, proud, restive base of the streets;
The low, hoarse purr of the whirling stonethe light-pressd blade,
Diffusing, dropping, sideways-darting, in tiny showers of gold,
Sparkles from the wheel.
Sparkles from The Wheel.
written byWalt Whitman
© Walt Whitman