The Scissors-Grinder

Over the road when Spring begins

And fields drop green to the bay,

Before you have seen him a long way off

You can hear him call and say:

"Knives to grind; Scissors to mend!

Bring out your knives to-day!"

Brown is his face as a last year's cone;

His eyes as blue as the sea;

And his body stoops with a listing cant

Like a windswept cedar tree.

Are there always children who watch for him

When winter is at an end—

For his bell and his cry and his slanting self

To turn some far road's bend?

Does he follow the Spring from place to place

With his "Knives and Scissors to mend"?