Sword Blades and Poppy Seed Part 6

One day he was digging, a spade or two, As his aching back could lift, When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench, And to get it out he made great s.h.i.+ft.

So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain, And the veins in his forehead stood taut.

At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked, He gathered up what he had sought.

A dim old vase of crusted gla.s.s, Prismed while it lay buried deep.

s.h.i.+fting reds and greens, like a pigeon's neck, At the touch of the sun began to leap.

It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light; Flas.h.i.+ng like an opal-stone, Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran, Where at first there had seemed to be none.

It had handles on each side to bear it up, And a belly for the gurgling wine.

Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide, And its lip was curled and fine.

The old man saw it in the sun's bright stare And the colours started up through the crust, And he who had cursed at the yellow sun Held the flask to it and wiped away the dust.

And he bore the flask to the brightest spot, Where the shadow of the hill fell clear; And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask, And the sun shone without his sneer.

Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf, But it was only grey in the gloom.

So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth, And he went outside with a broom.

And he washed his windows just to let the sun Lie upon his new-found vase; And when evening came, he moved it down And put it on a table near the place

Where a candle fluttered in a draught from the door.

The old man forgot to swear, Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size, Dancing in the kitchen there.

He forgot to revile the sun next morning When he found his vase afire in its light.

And he carried it out of the house that day, And kept it close beside him until night.

And so it happened from day to day.

The old man fed his life On the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape.

And his soul forgot its former strife.

And the village-folk came and begged to see The flagon which was dug from the ground.

And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joy At showing what he had found.

One day the master of the village school Pa.s.sed him as he stooped at toil, Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his side Was the vase, on the turned-up soil.

"My friend," said the schoolmaster, pompous and kind, "That's a valuable thing you have there, But it might get broken out of doors, It should meet with the utmost care.

What are you doing with it out here?"

"Why, Sir," said the poor old man, "I like to have it about, do you see?

To be with it all I can."

"You will smash it," said the schoolmaster, sternly right, "Mark my words and see!"

And he walked away, while the old man looked At his treasure despondingly.

Then he smiled to himself, for it was his!

He had toiled for it, and now he cared.

Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues, Which his own hard work had bared.

He would carry it round with him everywhere, As it gave him joy to do.

A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row!

Who would dare to say so? Who?

Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way, And he bent to his hoe again....

A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back, And he lurched with a cry of pain.

For the blade of the hoe crashed into gla.s.s, And the vase fell to iridescent sherds.

The old man's body heaved with slow, dry sobs.

He did not curse, he had no words.

He gathered the fragments, one by one, And his fingers were cut and torn.

Then he made a hole in the very place Whence the beautiful vase had been borne.

He covered the hole, and he patted it down, Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door.

He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windows That no beam of light should cross the floor.

He sat down in front of the empty hearth, And he neither ate nor drank.

In three days they found him, dead and cold, And they said: "What a queer old crank!"

The Foreigner

Have at you, you Devils!

My back's to this tree, For you're nothing so nice That the hind-side of me Would escape your a.s.sault.

Come on now, all three!

Here's a dandified gentleman, Rapier at point, And a wrist which whirls round Like a circular joint.

A spatter of blood, man!

That's just to anoint

And make supple your limbs.

'Tis a pity the silk Of your waistcoat is stained.

Why! Your heart's full of milk, And so full, it spills over!

I'm not of your ilk.

You said so, and laughed At my old-fas.h.i.+oned hose, At the cut of my hair, At the length of my nose.

To carve it to pattern I think you propose.

Your pardon, young Sir, But my nose and my sword Are proving themselves In quite perfect accord.

I grieve to have spotted Your s.h.i.+rt. On my word!

And hullo! You Bully!

That blade's not a stick To slash right and left, And my skull is too thick To be cleft with such cuffs Of a sword. Now a lick