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
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
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