Study in Whites

Wax-white —
Floor, ceiling, walls.
Ivory shadows
Over the pavement
Polished to cream surfaces
By constant sweeping.
The big room is coloured like the petals
Of a great magnolia,
And has a patina
Of flower bloom
Which makes it shine dimly
Under the electric lamps.
Chairs are ranged in rows
Like sepia seeds
Waiting fulfilment.
The chalk-white spot of a cook's cap
Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall —

In the brown water,
Thick and silver-sheened in the sunshine,
Liquid and cool in the shade of the reeds,
A pike dozed.
Lost among the shadows of stems
He lay unnoticed.
Suddenly he flicked his tail,
And a green-and-copper brightness
Ran under the water.

Out from under the reeds
Came the olive-green light,
And orange flashed up
Through the sun-thickened water.
So the fish passed across the pool,
Green and copper,
A darkness and a gleam,
And the blurred reflections of the willows on the opposite bank

First a monkey, then a man.
Just the way the world began.

The firmament, with golden stars adorned,
The sailor's watchful eyes full well contenteth,
And afterward, with tempest overspread,
The absent lights of heaven he sore lamenteth.
Your face, the firmament of my repose,
Long time has kept my waking thoughts delighted,
But now the cloud of sorrow overgoes
Your glorious skies, wherewith I am affrighted.
For I that have my life and fortunes placed
Within the ship, that by those planets saileth,
By envious chance am overmuch disgraced,
Seeing the lodestar of my courses faileth:

Firefly, airplane, satellite, star
How I wonder which you are.

The fire on the hearth is the woman's fire,
Yellow and warm and pale with desire;
But the fire on the hill beneath the trees
Is red and green against men's knees.

The indoor fire is dim with tears,
Nursing women and their fears;
The campfire, flaring to a star,
Fans the wind where hunters are.

The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof
(This is the end of every song man sings!)
The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain,
Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain;
And health and hope have gone the way of love
Into the drear oblivion of lost things.
Ghosts go along with us until the end;
This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend.
With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait
For the dropt curtain and the closing gate:
This is the end of all the songs man sings.

Finished begging at the village crossroads,
now I stroll through the Hachiman Shrine
when children spot me, call to each other,
" That crazy monk from last year's back again! "

Fine merry franions,
Wanton companions,
My days are ever banyans
With thinking upon ye!
How Death, that last stinger,
Finis--uriter, end-bringer,
Has laid his chill finger,
Or is laying on ye.

There's rich Kitty Wheatley,
With footing it featly
That took me completely,
She sleeps in the Kirk House;
And poor Polly Perkin,
Whose Dad was still firking,
The jolly ale firkin
She's gone to the Workhouse.

Fine gardener, Ben Carter,
(In ten counties no smarter)
Has ta'en his departure
For Proserpine's orchard;
And Lily, postilion,

Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new,
Good pennyworths,--but money cannot move:
I keep a fair but for the Fair to view,--
A beggar may be liberal of love.
Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true,
The heart is true.

Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again,
My trifles come as treasures from my mind;
It is a precious jewel to be plain;
Sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find:
Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!
Of me a grain!

Within this pack pins, points, laces, and gloves,