Chapter 2

He pushed me into a great chair Of russet leather, poked a flare Of tumbling flame, with the old long sword, Up the chimney; but said no word. Slowly he walked to a distant shelf, And brought back a crock of finest delf. He rested a moment a blue-veined hand Upon the cover, then cut a band Of paper, pasted neatly round, Opened and poured. A sliding sound Came from beneath his old white hands, And I saw a little heap of sands, Black and smooth. What could they be: "Pepper," I thought. He looked at me. "What you see is poppy seed. Lethean dreams for those in need." He took up the grains with a gentle hand And sifted them slowly like hour-glass sand. On his old white finger the almandine Shot out its rays, incarnadine. "Visions for those too tired to sleep. These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep. No single soul in the world could dwell, Without these poppy-seeds I sell." For a moment he played with the shining stuff, Passing it through his fingers. Enough At last, he poured it back into The china jar of Holland blue, Which he carefully carried to its place. Then, with a smile on his aged face, He drew up a chair to the open space 'Twixt table and chimney. "Without preface, Young man, I will say that what you see Is not the puzzle you take it to be." "But surely, Sir, there is something strange In a shop with goods at so wide a range Each from the other, as swords and seeds. Your neighbours must have greatly differing needs." "My neighbours," he said, and he stroked his chin, "Live everywhere from here to Pekin. But you are wrong, my sort of goods Is but one thing in all its moods." He took a shagreen letter case From his pocket, and with charming grace Offered me a printed card. I read the legend, "Ephraim Bard. Dealer in Words." And that was all. I stared at the letters, whimsical Indeed, or was it merely a jest. He answered my unasked request: "All books are either dreams or swords, You can cut, or you can drug, with words. My firm is a very ancient house, The entries on my books would rouse Your wonder, perhaps incredulity. I inherited from an ancestry Stretching remotely back and far, This business, and my clients are As were those of my grandfather's days, Writers of books, and poems, and plays. My swords are tempered for every speech, For fencing wit, or to carve a breach Through old abuses the world condones. In another room are my grindstones and hones, For whetting razors and putting a point On daggers, sometimes I even anoint The blades with a subtle poison, so A twofold result may follow the blow. These are purchased by men who feel The need of stabbing society's heel, Which egotism has brought them to think Is set on their necks. I have foils to pink An adversary to quaint reply, And I have customers who buy Scalpels with which to dissect the brains And hearts of men. Ultramundanes Even demand some finer kinds To open their own souls and minds. But the other half of my business deals With visions and fancies. Under seals, Sorted, and placed in vessels here, I keep the seeds of an atmosphere. Each jar contains a different kind Of poppy seed. From farthest Ind Come the purple flowers, opium filled, From which the weirdest myths are distilled; My orient porcelains contain them all. Those Lowestoft pitchers against the wall Hold a lighter kind of bright conceit; And those old Saxe vases, out of the heat On that lowest shelf beside the door, Have a sort of Ideal, "couleur d'or". Every castle of the air Sleeps in the fine black grains, and there Are seeds for every romance, or light Whiff of a dream for a summer night. I supply to every want and taste." 'Twas slowly said, in no great haste He seemed to push his wares, but I Dumfounded listened. By and by A log on the fire broke in two. He looked up quickly, "Sir, and you?" I groped for something I should say; Amazement held me numb. "To-day You sweated at a fruitless task." He spoke for me, "What do you ask? How can I serve you?" "My kind host, My penniless state was not a boast; I have no money with me." He smiled. "Not for that money I beguiled You here; you paid me in advance." Again I felt as though a trance Had dimmed my faculties. Again He spoke, and this time to explain. "The money I demand is Life, Your nervous force, your joy, your strife!" What infamous proposal now Was made me with so calm a brow? Bursting through my lethargy, Indignantly I hurled the cry: "Is this a nightmare, or am I Drunk with some infernal wine? I am no Faust, and what is mine Is what I call my soul! Old Man! Devil or Ghost! Your hellish plan Revolts me. Let me go." "My child," And the old tones were very mild, "I have no wish to barter souls; My traffic does not ask such tolls. I am no devil; is there one? Surely the age of fear is gone. We live within a daylight world Lit by the sun, where winds unfurled Sweep clouds to scatter pattering rain, And then blow back the sun again. I sell my fancies, or my swords, To those who care far more for words, Ideas, of which they are the sign, Than any other life-design. Who buy of me must simply pay Their whole existence quite away: Their strength, their manhood, and their prime, Their hours from morning till the time When evening comes on tiptoe feet, And losing life, think it complete; Must miss what other men count being, To gain the gift of deeper seeing; Must spurn all ease, all hindering love, All which could hold or bind; must prove The farthest boundaries of thought, And shun no end which these have brought; Then die in satisfaction, knowing That what was sown was worth the sowing. I claim for all the goods I sell That they will serve their purpose well, And though you perish, they will live. Full measure for your pay I give. To-day you worked, you thought, in vain. What since has happened is the train Your toiling brought. I spoke to you For my share of the bargain, due." "My life! And is that all you crave In pay? What even childhood gave! I have been dedicate from youth. Before my God I speak the truth!" Fatigue, excitement of the past Few hours broke me down at last. All day I had forgot to eat, My nerves betrayed me, lacking meat. I bowed my head and felt the storm Plough shattering through my prostrate form. The tearless sobs tore at my heart. My host withdrew himself apart; Busied among his crockery, He paid no farther heed to me. Exhausted, spent, I huddled there, Within the arms of the old carved chair.

A long half-hour dragged away, And then I heard a kind voice say, "The day will soon be dawning, when You must begin to work again. Here are the things which you require." By the fading light of the dying fire, And by the guttering candle's flare, I saw the old man standing there. He handed me a packet, tied With crimson tape, and sealed. "Inside Are seeds of many differing flowers, To occupy your utmost powers Of storied vision, and these swords Are the finest which my shop affords. Go home and use them; do not spare Yourself; let that be all your care. Whatever you have means to buy Be very sure I can supply." He slowly walked to the window, flung It open, and in the grey air rung The sound of distant matin bells. I took my parcels. Then, as tells An ancient mumbling monk his beads, I tried to thank for his courteous deeds My strange old friend. "Nay, do not talk," He urged me, "you have a long walk Before you. Good-by and Good-day!" And gently sped upon my way I stumbled out in the morning hush, As down the empty street a flush Ran level from the rising sun. Another day was just begun.

SWORD BLADES

The Captured Goddess

Over the housetops, Above the rotating chimney-pots, I have seen a shiver of amethyst, And blue and cinnamon have flickered A moment, At the far end of a dusty street.

Through sheeted rain Has come a lustre of crimson, And I have watched moonbeams Hushed by a film of palest green.

It was her wings, Goddess! Who stepped over the clouds, And laid her rainbow feathers Aslant on the currents of the air.

I followed her for long, With gazing eyes and stumbling feet. I cared not where she led me, My eyes were full of colours: Saffrons, rubies, the yellows of beryls, And the indigo-blue of quartz; Flights of rose, layers of chrysoprase, Points of orange, spirals of vermilion, The spotted gold of tiger-lily petals, The loud pink of bursting hydrangeas. I followed, And watched for the flashing of her wings.

In the city I found her, The narrow-streeted city. In the market-place I came upon her, Bound and trembling. Her fluted wings were fastened to her sides with cords, She was naked and cold, For that day the wind blew Without sunshine.

Men chaffered for her, They bargained in silver and gold, In copper, in wheat, And called their bids across the market-place.

The Goddess wept.

Hiding my face I fled, And the grey wind hissed behind me, Along the narrow streets.

The Precinct. Rochester

The tall yellow hollyhocks stand, Still and straight, With their round blossoms spread open, In the quiet sunshine. And still is the old Roman wall, Rough with jagged bits of flint, And jutting stones, Old and cragged, Quite still in its antiquity. The pear-trees press their branches against it, And feeling it warm and kindly, The little pears ripen to yellow and red. They hang heavy, bursting with juice, Against the wall. So old, so still!

The sky is still. The clouds make no sound As they slide away Beyond the Cathedral Tower, To the river, And the sea. It is very quiet, Very sunny. The myrtle flowers stretch themselves in the sunshine, But make no sound. The roses push their little tendrils up, And climb higher and higher. In spots they have climbed over the wall. But they are very still, They do not seem to move. And the old wall carries them Without effort, and quietly Ripens and shields the vines and blossoms.

A bird in a plane-tree Sings a few notes, Cadenced and perfect They weave into the silence. The Cathedral bell knocks, One, two, three, and again, And then again. It is a quiet sound, Calling to prayer, Hardly scattering the stillness, Only making it close in more densely. The gardener picks ripe gooseberries For the Dean's supper to-night. It is very quiet, Very regulated and mellow. But the wall is old, It has known many days. It is a Roman wall, Left-over and forgotten.

Beyond the Cathedral Close Yelp and mutter the discontents of people not mellow, Not well-regulated. People who care more for bread than for beauty, Who would break the tombs of saints, And give the painted windows of churches To their children for toys. People who say: "They are dead, we live! The world is for the living."

Fools! It is always the dead who breed. Crush the ripe fruit, and cast it aside, Yet its seeds shall fructify, And trees rise where your huts were standing. But the little people are ignorant, They chaffer, and swarm. They gnaw like rats, And the foundations of the Cathedral are honeycombed.

The Dean is in the Chapter House; He is reading the architect's bill For the completed restoration of the Cathedral. He will have ripe gooseberries for supper, And then he will walk up and down the path By the wall, And admire the snapdragons and dahlias, Thinking how quiet and peaceful The garden is. The old wall will watch him, Very quietly and patiently it will watch. For the wall is old, It is a Roman wall.

The Cyclists

Spread on the roadway, With open-blown jackets, Like black, soaring pinions, They swoop down the hillside, The Cyclists.

Seeming dark-plumaged Birds, after carrion, Careening and circling, Over the dying Of England.

She lies with her bosom Beneath them, no longer The Dominant Mother, The Virile--but rotting Before time.

The smell of her, tainted, Has bitten their nostrils. Exultant they hover, And shadow the sun with Foreboding.

Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window

What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries, Of outworn, childish mysteries, Vague pageants woven on a web of dream! And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries.

Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees, The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese Dark-banded prints. Carven cathedrals, on a sky Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze.

Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk From over-handling, by some anxious monk. Or Virgin's Hours, bright with gold and graven With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven, And Noah's ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk.

They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sung By youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flung In cadences and falls, to ease a queen, Widowed and childless, cowering in a screen Of myrtles, whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung.

A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M.

They have watered the street, It shines in the glare of lamps, Cold, white lamps, And lies Like a slow-moving river, Barred with silver and black. Cabs go down it, One, And then another. Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. Tramps doze on the window-ledges, Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. The city is squalid and sinister, With the silver-barred street in the midst, Slow-moving, A river leading nowhere.

Opposite my window, The moon cuts, Clear and round, Through the plum-coloured night. She cannot light the city; It is too bright. It has white lamps, And glitters coldly.

I stand in the window and watch the moon. She is thin and lustreless, But I love her. I know the moon, And this is an alien city.

Astigmatism

To Ezra Pound

With much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion

The Poet took his walking-stick Of fine and polished ebony. Set in the close-grained wood Were quaint devices; Patterns in ambers, And in the clouded green of jades. The top was of smooth, yellow ivory, And a tassel of tarnished gold Hung by a faded cord from a hole Pierced in the hard wood, Circled with silver. For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane. His wealth had gone to enrich it, His experiences to pattern it, His labour to fashion and burnish it. To him it was perfect, A work of art and a weapon, A delight and a defence. The Poet took his walking-stick And walked abroad.

Peace be with you, Brother.

The Poet came to a meadow. Sifted through the grass were daisies, Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun. The Poet struck them with his cane. The little heads flew off, and they lay Dying, open-mouthed and wondering, On the hard ground. "They are useless. They are not roses," said the Poet.

Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways.

The Poet came to a stream. Purple and blue flags waded in the water; In among them hopped the speckled frogs; The wind slid through them, rustling. The Poet lifted his cane, And the iris heads fell into the water. They floated away, torn and drowning. "Wretched flowers," said the Poet, "They are not roses."

Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair.

The Poet came to a garden. Dahlias ripened against a wall, Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature, And a trumpet-vine covered an arbour With the red and gold of its blossoms. Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets. The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias, And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground. Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems. Red and gold they lay scattered, Red and gold, as on a battle field; Red and gold, prone and dying. "They were not roses," said the Poet.

Peace be with you, Brother. But behind you is destruction, and waste places.

The Poet came home at evening, And in the candle-light He wiped and polished his cane. The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers, And made the jades undulate like green pools. It played along the bright ebony, And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory. But these things were dead, Only the candle-light made them seem to move. "It is a pity there were no roses," said the Poet.

Peace be with you, Brother. You have chosen your part.

The Coal Picker

He perches in the slime, inert, Bedaubed with iridescent dirt. The oil upon the puddles dries To colours like a peacock's eyes, And half-submerged tomato-cans Shine scaly, as leviathans Oozily crawling through the mud. The ground is here and there bestud With lumps of only part-burned coal. His duty is to glean the whole, To pick them from the filth, each one, To hoard them for the hidden sun Which glows within each fiery core And waits to be made free once more. Their sharp and glistening edges cut His stiffened fingers. Through the smut Gleam red the wounds which will not shut. Wet through and shivering he kneels And digs the slippery coals; like eels They slide about. His force all spent, He counts his small accomplishment. A half-a-dozen clinker-coals Which still have fire in their souls. Fire! And in his thought there burns The topaz fire of votive urns. He sees it fling from hill to hill, And still consumed, is burning still. Higher and higher leaps the flame, The smoke an ever-shifting frame. He sees a Spanish Castle old, With silver steps and paths of gold. From myrtle bowers comes the plash Of fountains, and the emerald flash Of parrots in the orange trees, Whose blossoms pasture humming bees. He knows he feeds the urns whose smoke Bears visions, that his master-stroke Is out of dirt and misery To light the fire of poesy. He sees the glory, yet he knows That others cannot see his shows. To them his smoke is sightless, black, His votive vessels but a pack Of old discarded shards, his fire A peddler's; still to him the pyre Is incensed, an enduring goal! He sighs and grubs another coal.

Storm-Racked

How should I sing when buffeting salt waves And stung with bitter surges, in whose might I toss, a cockleshell? The dreadful night Marshals its undefeated dark and raves In brutal madness, reeling over graves Of vanquished men, long-sunken out of sight, Sent wailing down to glut the ghoulish sprite Who haunts foul seaweed forests and their caves. No parting cloud reveals a watery star, My cries are washed away upon the wind, My cramped and blistering hands can find no spar, My eyes with hope o'erstrained, are growing blind. But painted on the sky great visions burn, My voice, oblation from a shattered urn!

Convalescence

From out the dragging vastness of the sea, Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, seaweed strands, He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands One moment, white and dripping, silently, Cut like a cameo in lazuli, Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands Prone in the jeering water, and his hands Clutch for support where no support can be. So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch, He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow And sandflies dance their little lives away. The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinch The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow, And in the sky there blooms the sun of May.

Patience

Be patient with you? When the stooping sky Leans down upon the hills And tenderly, as one who soothing stills An anguish, gathers earth to lie Embraced and girdled. Do the sun-filled men Feel patience then?

Be patient with you? When the snow-girt earth Cracks to let through a spurt Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt A snowdrop leaps, how mark its worth To eyes frost-hardened, and do weary men Feel patience then?

Be patient with you? When pain's iron bars Their rivets tighten, stern To bend and break their victims; as they turn, Hopeless, there stand the purple jars Of night to spill oblivion. Do these men Feel patience then?

Be patient with you? You! My sun and moon! My basketful of flowers! My money-bag of shining dreams! My hours, Windless and still, of afternoon! You are my world and I your citizen. What meaning can have patience then?

Apology

Be not angry with me that I bear Your colours everywhere, All through each crowded street, And meet The wonder-light in every eye, As I go by.

Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, Blinded by rainbow haze, The stuff of happiness, No less, Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds Of peacock golds.

Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way Flushes beneath its gray. My steps fall ringed with light, So bright, It seems a myriad suns are strown About the town.

Around me is the sound of steepled bells, And rich perfumed smells Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, And shroud Me from close contact with the world. I dwell impearled.

You blazon me with jewelled insignia. A flaming nebula Rims in my life. And yet You set The word upon me, unconfessed To go unguessed.

A Petition

I pray to be the tool which to your hand Long use has shaped and moulded till it be Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly, You take it for its service. I demand To be forgotten in the woven strand Which grows the multi-coloured tapestry Of your bright life, and through its tissues lie A hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band. I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams, The railing to the stairway of the clouds, To guard your steps securely up, where streams A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds Of pointed stars. Remember not whereby You mount, protected, to the far-flung sky.

A Blockhead