Sword Blades and Poppy Seed | Page 4

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