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Sara Teasdale - The Carpenter`s Son
Work rating: Low

The summer dawn came over-soon, 
The earth was like hot iron at noon 
    In Nazareth; 
There fell no rain to ease the heat, 
And dusk drew on with tired feet 
    And stifled breath.

The shop was low and hot and square, 
And fresh-cut wood made sharp the air, 
    While all day long 
The saw went tearing thru the oak 
That moaned as tho` the tree`s heart broke 
    Beneath its wrong.

The narrow street was full of cries, 
Of bickering and snarling lies 
    In many keys— 
The tongues of Egypt and of Rome 
And lands beyond the shifting foam 
    Of windy seas.

Sometimes a ruler riding fast 
Scattered the dark crowds as he passed, 
    And drove them close 
In doorways, drawing broken breath 
Lest they be trampled to their death 
    Where the dust rose.

There in the gathering night and noise 
A group of Galilean boys 
    Crowding to see 
Gray Joseph toiling with his son, 
Saw Jesus, when the task was done, 
    Turn wearily.

He passed them by with hurried tread 
Silently, nor raised his head, 
    He who looked up 
Drinking all beauty from his birth 
Out of the heaven and the earth 
    As from a cup.

And Mary, who was growing old, 
Knew that the pottage would be cold 
    When he returned; 
He hungered only for the night, 
And westward, bending sharp and bright, 
    The thin moon burned.

He reached the open western gate 
Where whining halt and leper wait, 
    And came at last 
To the blue desert, where the deep 
Great seas of twilight lay asleep, 
    Windless and vast.

With shining eyes the stars awoke, 
The dew lay heavy on his cloak, 
    The world was dim; 
And in the stillness he could hear 
His secret thoughts draw very near 
    And call to him.

Faint voices lifted shrill with pain 
And multitudinous as rain; 
    From all the lands 
And all the villages thereof 
Men crying for the gift of love 
    With outstretched hands.

Voices that called with ceaseless crying, 
The broken and the blind, the dying, 
    And those grown dumb 
Beneath oppression, and he heard 
Upon their lips a single word, 
    "Come!"

Their cries engulfed him like the night, 
The moon put out her placid light 
    And black and low 
Nearer the heavy thunder drew, 
Hushing the voices . . . yet he knew 
    That he would go.

A quick-spun thread of lightning burns, 
And for a flash the day returns— 
    He only hears 
Joseph, an old man bent and white 
Toiling alone from morn till night 
    Thru all the years.

Swift clouds make all the heavens blind, 
A storm is running on the wind— 
    He only sees 
How Mary will stretch out her hands 
Sobbing, who never understands 
    Voices like these.
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