"Face invisible! je t'ai gravée en médailles
     D'argent doux comme l'aube pâle,
     D'or ardent comme le soleil,
     D'airain sombre comme la nuit;
     Il y en a de tout métal,
     Qui tintent clair comme la joie,
     Qui sonnent lourd comme la gloire,
     Comme l'amour, comme la mort;
     Et j'ai fait les plus belles de belle argile
     Sèche et fragile.

     "Une à une, vous les comptiez en souriant,
     Et vous disiez:  Il est habile;
     Et vous passiez en souriant.

     "Aucun de vous n'a donc vu
     Que mes mains tremblaient de tendresse,
     Que tout le grand songe terrestre
     Vivait en moi pour vivre en eux
     Que je gravais aux métaux pieux,
     Mes Dieux."
               Henri de Régnier, "Les Médailles d'Argile".

      A drifting, April, twilight sky,
      A wind which blew the puddles dry,
      And slapped the river into waves
      That ran and hid among the staves
      Of an old wharf.  A watery light
      Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white
      Without 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 word
      Which lines and circles overscored.
      My table seemed a graveyard, full
      Of coffins waiting burial.
      I seized these vile abortions, tore
      Them into jagged bits, and swore
      To be the dupe of hope no more.
      Into the evening straight I went,
      Starved of a day's accomplishment.
      Unnoticing, I wandered where
      The city gave a space for air,
      And on the bridge's parapet
      I leant, while pallidly there set
      A 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 be
      Most grateful could you lend to me
      A carfare, I have lost my purse."
      The voice was clear, concise, and terse.
      I turned and met the quiet gaze
      Of strange eyes flashing through the haze.

      The man was old and slightly bent,
      Under his cloak some instrument
      Disarranged its stately line,
      He rested on his cane a fine
      And nervous hand, an almandine
      Smouldered with dull-red flames, sanguine
      It burned in twisted gold, upon
      His finger.  Like some Spanish don,
      Conferring favours even when
      Asking an alms, he bowed again
      And waited.  But my pockets proved
      Empty, in vain I poked and shoved,
      No hidden penny lurking there
      Greeted my search.  "Sir, I declare
      I have no money, pray forgive,
      But let me take you where you live."
      And so we plodded through the mire
      Where street lamps cast a wavering fire.
      I took no note of where we went,
      His talk became the element
      Wherein my being swam, content.
      It flashed like rapiers in the night
      Lit by uncertain candle-light,
      When on some moon-forsaken sward
      A quarrel dies upon a sword.
      It hacked and carved like a cutlass blade,
      And the noise in the air the broad words made
      Was the cry of the wind at a window-pane
      On an Autumn night of sobbing rain.
      Then it would run like a steady stream
      Under pinnacled bridges where minarets gleam,
      Or lap the air like the lapping tide
      Where a marble staircase lifts its wide
      Green-spotted steps to a garden gate,
      And a waning moon is sinking straight
      Down to a black and ominous sea,
      While a nightingale sings in a lemon tree.

      I walked as though some opiate
      Had stung and dulled my brain, a state
      Acute and slumbrous.  It grew late.
      We stopped, a house stood silent, dark.
      The old man scratched a match, the spark
      Lit up the keyhole of a door,
      We entered straight upon a floor
      White with finest powdered sand
      Carefully sifted, one might stand
      Muddy and dripping, and yet no trace
      Would 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 fire
      And crimson and scarlet glowed the pyre
      Wrapped in the golden flame's desire.
      The chamber opened like an eye,
      As a half-melted cloud in a Summer sky
      The soul of the house stood guessed, and shy
      It peered at the stranger warily.
      A little shop with its various ware
      Spread on shelves with nicest care.
      Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots,
      Pipkins, and mugs, and many lots
      Of 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 leaned
      Against the wall, like ships careened.
      There was dusky blue of Wedgewood ware,
      The carved, white figures fluttering there
      Like leaves adrift upon the air.
      Classic in touch, but emasculate,
      The Greek soul grown effeminate.
      The factory of Sevres had lent
      Elegant boxes with ornament
      Culled from gardens where fountains splashed
      And 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 spelt
      Their love in flowers, brittle and bright,
      Artificial and fragile, which told aright
      The vows of an eighteenth-century knight.
      The cruder tones of old Dutch jugs
      Glared from one shelf, where Toby mugs
      Endlessly drank the foaming ale,
      Its froth grown dusty, awaiting sale.
      The glancing light of the burning wood
      Played over a group of jars which stood
      On a distant shelf, it seemed the sky
      Had lent the half-tones of his blazonry
      To paint these porcelains with unknown hues
      Of reds dyed purple and greens turned blues,
      Of lustres with so evanescent a sheen
      Their colours are felt, but never seen.
      Strange winged dragons writhe about
      These 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 ure
      Of 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 thing
      Which I had wondered to see him bring
      Guarded 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 so
      It could cut a floating thread at a blow.
      The old man smiled, "It has no sheath,
      'Twas a little careless to have it beneath
      My cloak, for a jostle to my arm
      Would 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 score
      Of swords and daggers of every size
      Which 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 make
      And tip with feathers, orange and green,
      A quivering death, in harlequin sheen.
      High up, a fan of glancing steel
      Was formed of claymores in a wheel.
      Jewelled swords worn at kings' levees
      Were suspended next midshipmen's dirks, and these
      Elbowed 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 yataghan
      Made a waving streak of vitreous white
      Upon the wall, in the firelight.
      Foils with buttons broken or lost
      Lay heaped on a chair, among them tossed
      The boarding-pike of a privateer.
      Against the chimney leaned a queer
      Two-handed weapon, with edges dull
      As though from hacking on a skull.
      The rusted blood corroded it still.
      My host took up a paper spill
      From a heap which lay in an earthen bowl,
      And lighted it at a burning coal.
      At either end of the table, tall
      Wax candles were placed, each in a small,
      And slim, and burnished candlestick
      Of pewter.  The old man lit each wick,
      And the room leapt more obviously
      Upon my mind, and I could see
      What the flickering fire had hid from me.
      Above the chimney's yawning throat,
      Shoulder high, like the dark wainscote,
      Was a mantelshelf of polished oak
      Blackened with the pungent smoke
      Of firelit nights; a Cromwell clock
      Of tarnished brass stood like a rock
      In the midst of a heaving, turbulent sea
      Of every sort of cutlery.
      There lay knives sharpened to any use,
      The keenest lancet, and the obtuse
      And blunted pruning bill-hook; blades
      Of razors, scalpels, shears; cascades
      Of penknives, with handles of mother-of-pearl,
      And scythes, and sickles, and scissors; a whirl
      Of points and edges, and underneath
      Shot the gleam of a saw with bristling teeth.
      My head grew dizzy, I seemed to hear
      A 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 gloom
      Pounded with shouts and dying groans,
      With the drip of blood on cold, hard stones.
      Sabres and lances in streaks of light
      Gleamed through the smoke, and at my right
      A 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 desire
      Had 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 clear
      Your mind of such imaginings.
      Sit down.  I will tell you of these things."

      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.

   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 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.

   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.