You can tell what a man is worth
by the way he treats people who can do nothing for him.
But I also like the older, slightly different, idea
that a man's worth is measured by the quality of his hospitality,
by his readiness to share his salt.
A thousand years ago, we had a name for the profession
of living at a crossroads and feeding all and sundry
from a big, steaming stew-pot. It ranked
somewhere near a bishop. We still have bishops.
God be with the days!
You might be a long time walking the roads, nowadays,
before you met the like, but, thank Christ,
there are a few houses left, and I know where they are,
where you wouldn't be left standing
with one arm as long as the other.
I haven't the slightest objection in the world
to singing for my supper. Would you like a song?
I'll sing you one. I'll sing you ten.
I'll sing until you beg me to stop,
or the sun comes up again.
Would you rather hear a story, or just talk
of old or new things, light or deep things,
sad, or brave, or gay, or silly things?
Give me half a hint, or the glint of an eye,
and I'll pull up a chair and we'll start.
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