The Cobbler's

Shoes on counter, bench and shelf;

Shoes heaped on the floor—

And a golden giant's boot that swings

Above the Cobbler's door.

Stubby toes and run-down heels;

Leather soles worn thin;

Shoes so cracked and shiny that

They positively grin.

Muddy shoes like tired tramps;

Dancing slippers new—

Cobbler, as you mend them all,

Do they talk to you?

Do they tell you what they've seen

On the roads they know?

Do they say what sort of folk

Take them to and fro?

Are they glad to rest themselves

In your shop awhile,

Or are they eager to be off

Mile after mile?

Does the golden boot outside,

Hanging by itself,

Wish it were a plain, patched shoe,

Cobbler, on your shelf?