Sword Blades and Poppy Seed | Page 3

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