I watch the workman place the paving stone
And, with a craftsman's dextrous care, smooth fine
The ridges of cement which blur the line
Between the butting slabs. These hands have grown
To calloused prime in mastering their known
Accomplishment. Perhaps they coud design
And execute mosaic, yet resign
Themselves imassively to what alone
Is needed for a busy London street:
A pavement artist to maintain the way
And cater for the heedless passing feet.
The chic shop windows offer their array
Of stylish artistry; yet none compete
With what the simple paving stones display.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem