Page 39 of The Sun King's Noon

who sat by a window and practised his art.

He whittled and carved from dawn’s earliest grey

till the sun slunk to bed at the end of the day.

He shaped once a robin, breast aglow,

And set it on the sill to catch the snow.

A passing sparrow, besotted, keen,

Declared it was the fairest bird she’d seen.

She sang it ballads from the highest bough,

She brought it worms and made a lover’s vow,

She preened before it, fluffed her feathered chest,

Then built around its feet a twiggy nest.

Well, the man was shocked to find his shop besieged

By one small bird, romantically intrigued,

Who bombarded him with beak and wing,

For daring to disturb her wooden fling.

He fled! He ran! He tumbled through the door!

And the sparrow nested with her love evermore.

How the people laughed, they said the man odd,

that one of his station should kneel before God,

hang up the chisel, take hold of a sword,

sit straight at the table, and act like a lord.

But the man only shrugged and returned to his art,

for each chip of the blade was a chip of his heart,

and the shavings that fell were the years he had known,

and the toys that he made were for those he called home.

So if ever you pass by a window alight,

where a figure’s hunched, carving works late in the night,

do not mock, do not scold, do not bid him to cease?—

For such hands bring the weary heart peace.

Penelope’s eyes glistened as she recited the last verse, and once finished, she bowed her head and rubbed at her nose. Despite the quarrels the young lady’s presence brought, Richard felt a pang of sympathy. He clapped hard as scattered applause broke out, especially from the fauns in the left corner who bleated praises.