'_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 sigh'd 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.