I’ve got them all categorized, each in its own particular barrel,
Trumpets, sackcloth, weeping willows,
Citrons, books, and a line of winter apparel.
And when I’ve got enough, or my merchandise is outstanding,
Eight day wonder candles or wine maroon or pale or
Medicinal bread, a ticket to cross the Black Sea,
I stand and wait in the hall of the wholesaler.
And I feel that I am alive, I thrive, I
Find a new classification, a new arithmetic to count in,
I see the laws of my commerce absorbed into one,
And I clamber my way up the mountain