Sword Blades and Poppy Seed

A drifting, April, twilight sky,A wind which blew the puddles dry,And slapped the river into wavesThat ran and hid among the stavesOf an old wharf. A watery lightTouched bleak the granite bridge, and whiteWithout the slightest tinge of gold,The city shivered in the cold.All day my thoughts had lain as dead,Unborn and bursting in my head.From time to time I wrote a wordWhich lines and circles overscored.My table seemed a graveyard, fullOf coffins waiting burial.I seized these vile abortions, toreThem into jagged bits, and sworeTo be the dupe of hope no more.Into the evening straight I went,Starved of a day's accomplishment.Unnoticing, I wandered whereThe city gave a space for air,And on the bridge's parapetI leant, while pallidly there setA dim, discouraged, worn-out sun.Behind me, where the tramways run,Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave,When someone plucked me by the sleeve."Your pardon, Sir, but I should beMost grateful could you lend to meA carfare, I have lost my purse."The voice was clear, concise, and terse.I turned and met the quiet gazeOf strange eyes flashing through the haze.

The man was old and slightly bent,Under his cloak some instrumentDisarranged its stately line,He rested on his cane a fineAnd nervous hand, an almandineSmouldered with dull-red flames, sanguineIt burned in twisted gold, uponHis finger. Like some Spanish don,Conferring favours even whenAsking an alms, he bowed againAnd waited. But my pockets provedEmpty, in vain I poked and shoved,No hidden penny lurking thereGreeted my search. "Sir, I declareI have no money, pray forgive,But let me take you where you live."And so we plodded through the mireWhere street lamps cast a wavering fire.I took no note of where we went,His talk became the elementWherein my being swam, content.It flashed like rapiers in the nightLit by uncertain candle-light,When on some moon-forsaken swardA quarrel dies upon a sword.It hacked and carved like a cutlass blade,And the noise in the air the broad words madeWas the cry of the wind at a window-paneOn an Autumn night of sobbing rain.Then it would run like a steady streamUnder pinnacled bridges where minarets gleam,Or lap the air like the lapping tideWhere a marble staircase lifts its wideGreen-spotted steps to a garden gate,And a waning moon is sinking straightDown to a black and ominous sea,While a nightingale sings in a lemon tree.

I walked as though some opiateHad stung and dulled my brain, a stateAcute and slumbrous. It grew late.We stopped, a house stood silent, dark.The old man scratched a match, the sparkLit up the keyhole of a door,We entered straight upon a floorWhite with finest powdered sandCarefully sifted, one might standMuddy and dripping, and yet no traceWould stain the boards of this kitchen-place.From the chimney, red eyes sparked the gloom,And a cricket's chirp filled all the room.My host threw pine-cones on the fireAnd crimson and scarlet glowed the pyreWrapped in the golden flame's desire.The chamber opened like an eye,As a half-melted cloud in a Summer skyThe soul of the house stood guessed, and shyIt peered at the stranger warily.A little shop with its various wareSpread on shelves with nicest care.Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots,Pipkins, and mugs, and many lotsOf lacquered canisters, black and gold,Like those in which Chinese tea is sold.Chests, and puncheons, kegs, and flasks,Goblets, chalices, firkins, and casks.In a corner three ancient amphorae leanedAgainst the wall, like ships careened.There was dusky blue of Wedgewood ware,The carved, white figures fluttering thereLike leaves adrift upon the air.Classic in touch, but emasculate,The Greek soul grown effeminate.The factory of Sevres had lentElegant boxes with ornamentCulled from gardens where fountains splashedAnd golden carp in the shadows flashed,Nuzzling for crumbs under lily-pads,Which ladies threw as the last of fads.Eggshell trays where gay beaux knelt,Hand on heart, and daintily speltTheir love in flowers, brittle and bright,Artificial and fragile, which told arightThe vows of an eighteenth-century knight.The cruder tones of old Dutch jugsGlared from one shelf, where Toby mugsEndlessly drank the foaming ale,Its froth grown dusty, awaiting sale.The glancing light of the burning woodPlayed over a group of jars which stoodOn a distant shelf, it seemed the skyHad lent the half-tones of his blazonryTo paint these porcelains with unknown huesOf reds dyed purple and greens turned blues,Of lustres with so evanescent a sheenTheir colours are felt, but never seen.Strange winged dragons writhe aboutThese vases, poisoned venoms spout,Impregnate with old Chinese charms;Sealed urns containing mortal harms,They fill the mind with thoughts impure,Pestilent drippings from the ureOf vicious thinkings. "Ah, I see,"Said I, "you deal in pottery."The old man turned and looked at me.Shook his head gently. "No," said he.

Then from under his cloak he took the thingWhich I had wondered to see him bringGuarded so carefully from sight.As he laid it down it flashed in the light,A Toledo blade, with basket hilt,Damascened with arabesques of gilt,Or rather gold, and tempered soIt could cut a floating thread at a blow.The old man smiled, "It has no sheath,'Twas a little careless to have it beneathMy cloak, for a jostle to my armWould have resulted in serious harm.But it was so fine, I could not wait,So I brought it with me despite its state.""An amateur of arms," I thought,"Bringing home a prize which he has bought.""You care for this sort of thing, Dear Sir?""Not in the way which you infer.I need them in business, that is all."And he pointed his finger at the wall.Then I saw what I had not noticed before.The walls were hung with at least five scoreOf swords and daggers of every sizeWhich nations of militant men could devise.Poisoned spears from tropic seas,That natives, under banana trees,Smear with the juice of some deadly snake.Blood-dipped arrows, which savages makeAnd tip with feathers, orange and green,A quivering death, in harlequin sheen.High up, a fan of glancing steelWas formed of claymores in a wheel.Jewelled swords worn at kings' leveesWere suspended next midshipmen's dirks, and theseElbowed stilettos come from Spain,Chased with some splendid Hidalgo's name.There were Samurai swords from old Japan,And scimitars from Hindoostan,While the blade of a Turkish yataghanMade a waving streak of vitreous whiteUpon the wall, in the firelight.Foils with buttons broken or lostLay heaped on a chair, among them tossedThe boarding-pike of a privateer.Against the chimney leaned a queerTwo-handed weapon, with edges dullAs though from hacking on a skull.The rusted blood corroded it still.My host took up a paper spillFrom a heap which lay in an earthen bowl,And lighted it at a burning coal.At either end of the table, tallWax candles were placed, each in a small,And slim, and burnished candlestickOf pewter. The old man lit each wick,And the room leapt more obviouslyUpon my mind, and I could seeWhat the flickering fire had hid from me.Above the chimney's yawning throat,Shoulder high, like the dark wainscote,Was a mantelshelf of polished oakBlackened with the pungent smokeOf firelit nights; a Cromwell clockOf tarnished brass stood like a rockIn the midst of a heaving, turbulent seaOf every sort of cutlery.There lay knives sharpened to any use,The keenest lancet, and the obtuseAnd blunted pruning bill-hook; bladesOf razors, scalpels, shears; cascadesOf penknives, with handles of mother-of-pearl,And scythes, and sickles, and scissors; a whirlOf points and edges, and underneathShot the gleam of a saw with bristling teeth.My head grew dizzy, I seemed to hearA battle-cry from somewhere near,The clash of arms, and the squeal of balls,And the echoless thud when a dead man falls.A smoky cloud had veiled the room,Shot through with lurid glares; the gloomPounded with shouts and dying groans,With the drip of blood on cold, hard stones.Sabres and lances in streaks of lightGleamed through the smoke, and at my rightA creese, like a licking serpent's tongue,Glittered an instant, while it stung.Streams, and points, and lines of fire!The livid steel, which man's desireHad forged and welded, burned white and cold.Every blade which man could mould,Which could cut, or slash, or cleave, or rip,Or pierce, or thrust, or carve, or strip,Or gash, or chop, or puncture, or tear,Or slice, or hack, they all were there.Nerveless and shaking, round and round,I stared at the walls and at the ground,Till the room spun like a whipping top,And a stern voice in my ear said, "Stop!I sell no tools for murderers here.Of what are you thinking! Please clearYour mind of such imaginings.Sit down. I will tell you of these things."

He pushed me into a great chairOf russet leather, poked a flareOf 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 handUpon the cover, then cut a bandOf paper, pasted neatly round,Opened and poured. A sliding soundCame 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 handAnd sifted them slowly like hour-glass sand.On his old white finger the almandineShot 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. EnoughAt last, he poured it back intoThe 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 seeIs not the puzzle you take it to be.""But surely, Sir, there is something strangeIn a shop with goods at so wide a rangeEach 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 goodsIs but one thing in all its moods."He took a shagreen letter caseFrom his pocket, and with charming graceOffered me a printed card.I read the legend, "Ephraim Bard.Dealer in Words." And that was all.I stared at the letters, whimsicalIndeed, 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 rouseYour wonder, perhaps incredulity.I inherited from an ancestryStretching remotely back and far,This business, and my clients areAs 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 breachThrough old abuses the world condones.In another room are my grindstones and hones,For whetting razors and putting a pointOn daggers, sometimes I even anointThe blades with a subtle poison, soA twofold result may follow the blow.These are purchased by men who feelThe need of stabbing society's heel,Which egotism has brought them to thinkIs set on their necks. I have foils to pinkAn adversary to quaint reply,And I have customers who buyScalpels with which to dissect the brainsAnd hearts of men. UltramundanesEven demand some finer kindsTo open their own souls and minds.But the other half of my business dealsWith visions and fancies. Under seals,Sorted, and placed in vessels here,I keep the seeds of an atmosphere.Each jar contains a different kindOf poppy seed. From farthest IndCome the purple flowers, opium filled,From which the weirdest myths are distilled;My orient porcelains contain them all.Those Lowestoft pitchers against the wallHold a lighter kind of bright conceit;And those old Saxe vases, out of the heatOn that lowest shelf beside the door,Have a sort of Ideal, "couleur d'or".Every castle of the airSleeps in the fine black grains, and thereAre seeds for every romance, or lightWhiff of a dream for a summer night.I supply to every want and taste."'Twas slowly said, in no great hasteHe seemed to push his wares, but IDumfounded listened. By and byA 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-dayYou 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 beguiledYou here; you paid me in advance."Again I felt as though a tranceHad dimmed my faculties. AgainHe spoke, and this time to explain."The money I demand is Life,Your nervous force, your joy, your strife!"What infamous proposal nowWas made me with so calm a brow?Bursting through my lethargy,Indignantly I hurled the cry:"Is this a nightmare, or am IDrunk with some infernal wine?I am no Faust, and what is mineIs what I call my soul! Old Man!Devil or Ghost! Your hellish planRevolts 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 worldLit by the sun, where winds unfurledSweep 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 payTheir whole existence quite away:Their strength, their manhood, and their prime,Their hours from morning till the timeWhen 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 proveThe farthest boundaries of thought,And shun no end which these have brought;Then die in satisfaction, knowingThat what was sown was worth the sowing.I claim for all the goods I sellThat 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 trainYour toiling brought. I spoke to youFor my share of the bargain, due.""My life! And is that all you craveIn pay? What even childhood gave!I have been dedicate from youth.Before my God I speak the truth!"Fatigue, excitement of the pastFew 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 stormPlough 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, whenYou 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, tiedWith crimson tape, and sealed. "InsideAre seeds of many differing flowers,To occupy your utmost powersOf storied vision, and these swordsAre the finest which my shop affords.Go home and use them; do not spareYourself; let that be all your care.Whatever you have means to buyBe very sure I can supply."He slowly walked to the window, flungIt open, and in the grey air rungThe sound of distant matin bells.I took my parcels. Then, as tellsAn ancient mumbling monk his beads,I tried to thank for his courteous deedsMy strange old friend. "Nay, do not talk,"He urged me, "you have a long walkBefore you. Good-by and Good-day!"And gently sped upon my wayI stumbled out in the morning hush,As down the empty street a flushRan level from the rising sun.Another day was just begun.