Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; A time to rend, and a time to sow; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war; and a time of peace.

She Walks In Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

The Serenity Prayer

God, grant me... The Serenity to accept the things I cannot change. The Courage to change the things I can. and the Wisdom to know the difference.

The Power of One

One SONG can spark a moment One FLOWER can wake the dream One TREE can start a forest One BIRD can herald spring One SMILE begins a friendship One HANDCLASP lifts a soul One STAR can guide a ship at sea One WORD can frame the goal One VOTE can change a nation One SUNBEAM lights a room One CANDLE wipes out darkness One LAUGH will conquer gloom One STEP must start each journey One WORD must start a prayer One HOPE will raise our spirits One TOUCH can show you care One VOICE can speak with wisdom One HEART can know what is true One LIFE can make a difference – You see, it’s up to you.

The Passionate Shepherd To His Love

Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods, or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle: A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold: A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning; If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love.

The Man In the Arena

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.

A Blessing

May the road rise to meet you, May the wind be always at your back, May the sun shine warm upon your face, May the rains fall soft upon your fields, And, until we meet again, May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

If

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master, If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

How Do I Love Thee?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

Happiness Is A Journey...

Happiness is a journey, not a destination. Dance as though no one is watching you. Love as though you have never been hurt before. Sing as though no one can hear you. Live as though heaven is on earth.

Isabella

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Isabella. And this maiden, she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love-- I and my Isabella-- With a love that the winged seraphs in Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Isabella; So that her high-born kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a cocoon, In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me-- Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Isabella. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we-- Of many far wiser than we-- And neither the angels in Heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Isabella:-- For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Isabella; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Isabella:-- And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride, In her cocoon there by the sea-- In her tomb by the sounding sea.

A Child of The Univers

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Through all my heart

Don't faint, princess -- there's blood on your veil, your leaves are yellow, your cheeks are pale. Your glow inside is only the sun, and the wind will strip you when your clothes are done. And the crickets fall silent, and your birds depart -- but your laughter will echo through all my heart.

So Here I Am

So here I am, I am all unsettled and dislodged -- she should not have been so hungry for what I didn't want her to know. She should not have poked into my drawer, my baskets, she should not have pried open my locket to look at that curl of sloe-black hair. I spun her trust into injustice and tried to hide her from despair. But why should I bother to keep the peace if peace was not my soul's desire? And she couldn't stand to see my smile without squirreling out the reason.

It's sad to be out-of-doors in the rainy season, but since the deceit and fault and false were mine, I decided quietly to go. The other is not the woman for an apartment and a car, but a smoker and drinker of uncertain stars, so I'll have to turn to my dear women, now that I am unhoused. One of them will lend me a corner to stack my books while I shake my shoulders back -- the women love, but do not judge.

May Day

Let's go together out in the night, where the trees are heavy with flowers, where the shadows lay a second darkness on your hair. The crowns of this morning are faded, the coins of the sun are spent and scattered to reward its ragged troupe of birds -- but stars flicker behind a heavy stained-glass sky, and I hear distant shawms begin to play. Your kisses are the color of champagne, your touch makes needles of fear under my skin.

Even if your love is no longer than an hour, no stronger than a violet's stem, still it is what I desire: you must begin and end within the echo of my breath.

Green is thundering out of the ground, drawing our shadows out behind -- the night leaves us no place to rest, no stone that is safe from lightning, no chain we can hold to keep from falling.

The wind has stacked me a card house of joy, has marked you as my day to celebrate: I settle under the weight of your name. Love seeks to speak a perfect lie, a line all your women-to-be will gladly hear, a grace that is almost sincere.

And so accept me as your ornament, your spell and proof against all fright. You are the woman my chance has chosen to slow the change of the shape of the moon, to carry my flowers through one long night.

She Craved For The Sea

I met her in the green midlands, a land that seemed fair and sweet to me, but she pined for the rhythm of the tide, she longed to make love to the sea. I'd lie and rest my thoughts on the trees, but her eyes went on to the sky, and she craved sailing on bright nylon wings down some mountainside. So what was death if she couldn't fall, what desire she couldn't make clear? Of all the songs I offered her, not one was the tongue she wished to hear. Every hour nourished her discontent, summoning her to another shore -- and to myself she made me look lucky, for all that I will is inside myself, if it's to be won anywhere. All except her kiss, that is, of all her gifts the most rare.

Equinox

Trapped between gold and blue, piercing light and sweet deception -- and before I turn back to you I must balance the moment of indecision and offer you only half my thought -- though I had thought not -- hoped to give you all of myself, blooming with irony and contradiction, bearing you angels and demons, warm truth and shady fiction. But my feet might slip from the edge, follow reactions into tradition --

and so take this daylight half for me that is your own, while the nighttime woman roams alone and never visits her sister at home -- take this friendly laugh, this nod for everything that's yours, this brilliant nontime sky. And it might be so, or only a lie, that it conceals all midnight's stars.

The Edge of Water

She said the edge of any water was a place of power, where earth and air lift water to a lens in the sun: put your palms flat on the water, she said, pray if you can. After she died, I took this shore as my home, and by morning and night I walk down steps of stone; I lift my trouser in both hands and crouch by the sea, where the water spins and curls, carrying shells to me. But someone already colored the magic of this beach; It rises in birds and Greek words, beyond my speech. I should have stayed in the North, where I was born: it seems my pulse is too slow for the Southern sun. I need a greater ocean in sulk and storm, and a thatched house where I can run to be warm.

In February

My wind chime fell -- the string broke, and before the light had left the afternoon I saw through the window that it had fallen.

I went out in my shoes on the leaves and stones where the ground and broken branches slope down, and I peered and squinted in the cold gray space for the gleam of gold on the brown. I found it against the wall, but crippled: it had lost a delicate metal piece so that, more than ever like me, the wind could hardly make it sing.

The wind blew when I came back in, but I was not tempted to hang the chime again, so it lay crumpled on the table until another time, safe for new string, which slowly decays after days of rain.

Story

I fell for you from my full height, and you Were flowers, madness -- I was drunk with spring, With you, my hero and my perfect thing. Your names were all the magic words I knew.

And when I found the nerve to tell you so, You softly answered that you did not care For me or anything that we might share -- But softly, like the wind that follows snow.

So what are you when I forget your smile? A dream I sometimes mention to my friends When we eat jam and crackers on my bed ANd listen to the rain fall for a while.

It's strange that love's a story when it ends, Blue words on pages -- were they ever said?

Come into My Garden

Come into my garden, said the women. Under my trees, come hold the wind in your hands. Morning is born, come drink with me to its health. Every branch is a flute, every flower the first.

Come into my garden, said the woman. Dawn flattens into mid-morning, mid-summer knows no darkness. Why suffer the traffic, why waste time hurrying? Come into my garden.

Come let me wash your hands in the fountain, let me offer you roses behind the high walls. I've taken off my sandals to stand on the green lawn: why shouldn't you too?

Come into my garden, said the evening. So long to decide! But before a step forward the gate swung shut. I am sorry, said the woman, but it's past my bedtime. And the moonlight went into the garden.

The Lamp of Life

Always we are following a light, Always the light recedes; with groping hands We stretch toward this glory, while the lands We journey through are hidden from our sight Dim and mysterious, folded deep in night, We care not, all our utmost need demands Is but the light, the light! So still it stands Surely our own if we exert our might. Fool! Never can'st thou grasp this fleeting gleam, Its glowing flame would die if it were caught, Its value is that it doth always seem But just a little farther on. Distraught, But lighted ever onward, we are brought Upon our way unknowing, in a dream.

A Lady

You are beautiful and faded Like an old opera tune Played upon a harpsichord; Or like the sun-flooded silks Of an eighteenth-century boudoir. In your eyes Smolder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes, And the perfume of your soul Is vague and suffusing, With the pungence of sealed spice-jars. Your half-tones delight me, And I grow mad with gazing At your blunt colors. My vigor is a new-minted penny, Which I cast at your feet. Gather it up from the dust, That its sparkle may amuse you.

The Matrix

Goaded and harassed in the factory That tears our life up into bits of days Ticked off upon a clock which never stays, Shredding our portion of Eternity, We break away at last, and steal the key Which hides a world empty of hours; ways Of space unroll, and Heaven overlays The leafy, sun-lit earth of Fantasy. Beyond the ilex shadow glares the sun, Scorching against the blue flame of the sky. Brown lily-pads lie heavy and supine Within a granite basin, under one The bronze-gold glimmer of a carp; and I Reach out my hand and pluck a nectarine.

"To-morrow to Fresh Woods and Pastures New"

As for a moment he stands, in hardy masculine beauty, Poised on the fircrested rock, over the pool which below him Gleams in the wavering sunlight, waiting the shock of his plunging. So for a moment I stand, my feet planted firm in the present, Eagerly scanning the future which is so soon to possess me.

The Promise of the Morning Star

Thou father of the children of my brain By thee engendered in my willing heart, How can I thank thee for this gift of art Poured out so lavishly, and not in vain. What thou created never more can die, Thy fructifying power lives in me And I conceive, knowing it is by thee, Dear other parent of my poetry! For I was but a shadow with a name, Perhaps by now the very name's forgot; So strange is Fate that it has been my lot To learn through thee the presence of that aim Which evermore must guide me. All unknown, By me unguessed, by thee not even dreamed, A tree has blossomed in a night that seemed Of stubborn, barren wood. For thou hast sown This seed of beauty in a ground of truth. Humbly I dedicate myself, and yet I tremble with a sudden fear to set New music ringing through my fading youth.

Leisure

Leisure, thou goddess of a bygone age, When hours were long and days sufficed to hold Wide-eyed delights and pleasures uncontrolled By shortening moments, when no gaunt presage Of undone duties, modern heritage, Haunted our happy minds; must thou withhold Thy presence from this over-busy world, And bearing silence with thee disengage Our twined fortunes? Deeps of unhewn woods Alone can cherish thee, alone possess Thy quiet, teeming vigor. This our crime: Not to have worshipped, marred by alien moods That sole condition of all loveliness, The dreaming lapse of slow, unmeasured time.

Sword Blades and Poppy Seed

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.

The Little Garden

A little garden on a bleak hillside Where deep the heavy, dazzling mountain snow Lies far into the spring. The sun's pale glow Is scarcely able to melt patches wide About the single rose bush. All denied Of nature's tender ministries. But no, -- For wonder-working faith has made it blow With flowers many hued and starry-eyed. Here sleeps the sun long, idle summer hours; Here butterflies and bees fare far to rove Amid the crumpled leaves of poppy flowers; Here four o'clocks, to the passionate night above Fling whiffs of perfume, like pale incense showers. A little garden, loved with a great love!

Vintage

I will mix me a drink of stars, -- Large stars with polychrome needles, Small stars jetting maroon and crimson, Cool, quiet, green stars. I will tear them out of the sky, And squeeze them over an old silver cup, And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it, So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice. It will lap and scratch As I swallow it down; And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire, Coiling and twisting in my belly. His snortings will rise to my head, And I shall be hot, and laugh, Forgetting that I have ever known a woman.

I Wonder

The art of faith has come to me. It has bled deep within my heart and I can feel it piercing through me. I have met the oblivious and the grotesque faithless minds. I have ignored the truth and gone after darkness Yet in all this, I still manage to find peace. Sometimes I wonder about the friends I hold dear to my heart. I see them and speak to them but I still stare at them with blank expression. I see them as granite walls choking the very substance of my existence. But they are here and they are my friends....... What do I do?

Mirage

Images deep within me cramp my thought. Images dazed in imperfection. I dream of them and sometimes I taste them. I feel them also, sometimes, but I've never seen them. Are they true? You touch me sometimes, and I feel you. You kiss my forehead and I bow in submission. Why do I feel my heart skip a beat? Why do I feel an illusion form within my gray matter? I will think……. Yes, a simple word, but I will think! Read me. Feel me. See me. The rhythm of the sun flows in me. The sound and taste of the wind flow in me. These and other things remind me of you. These and other things keep you in me. You will remain, Forever you will dwell in me.