Classic Poem

" This job's the best I've done. " He bent his head
Over the golden vessel that he'd wrought.
A bird was singing. But the craftsman's thought
Is a forgotten language, lost and dead.

He sighed and stretch'd brown arms. His friend came in
And stood beside him in the morning sun.
The goldwork glitter'd. . . . " That's the best I've done.
" And now I've got a necklace to begin. "

This was at Gnossos, in the isle of Crete . . .
A girl was selling flowers along the street.