THOUGH I've had my share of the pleasure that men in a lifetime taste, And my chin is of double measure, and I'm rather thick in the waist, There's a joy Time cannot smother -- though the years have laid it away -- It was lugging the basket for mother, on the Saturday market day. On a frosty morn in December, with the holidays near at hand, Oh, the market that I remember was a regular fairyland! When the boisterous winds were icy and eager to nip the nose, All the odors about were spicy, and each cabbage became a rose; And the things that are often dull, or but commonplace things to see, Were a perfect riot of color and light and beauty to me, As we stopped at one or another of the stalls that were on our way, When I carried the basket for mother on the Saturday market day. Oh! I didn't growl at the number or weight of the things I bore, For I knew that I'd soon encumber my ribs with their share -- or more; That the sausage and sirloin and scrapple and other rich morsels would throng On the heels of the juicy red apple I munched as I shuffled along. But if now I could once be repeating that long-vanished journey of joy -- Though I'm fond, just as fond of good eating as ever I was as a boy -- I would let my old appetite smother, and take but a kiss for my pay, Could I carry the basket for mother on next Saturday market day! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...I LOVE ALL BEAUTEOUS THINGS by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES THE RAVEN; A CHRISTMAS TALE, TOLD BY A SCHOOL-BOY by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE CHRONICLE; A BALLAD by ABRAHAM COWLEY MOTLEY by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE RIGHT TO DIE by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR VENICE by JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS |