The Pedlar

Hark, people, to the cry
Of this curious young magician-pedlar
Seeking a golden bowl!

He wanders through the city
Offering useful tin-ware
For all the ancient metal
You have left to rust
In the dim, dusty attic
Or mouldy cellar
Of your soul.

He refuses nothing—­
Rusty nails
Which may have played their part
In a crucifixion—­
For ten of these he will give
A new tin spoon.

The andirons
Once guarding hearth-fires of content,
Now dusty and forgotten
In an obscure corner,
He will give for these
A new tin tea-kettle
With a wooden handle.

And for this antique bowl
Fashioned to hold
Roses or wine?

The eyes of the pedlar glisten! 
O woman, if acid reveal
Gold beneath the tarnished surface
He will gladly give you
His hands, his eyes, his soul,
His young, white body—­

If not,
A mocking laugh
And a bright tin sieve
To hold your wine
And roses.

Portrait of a Lady in Bed

I. THE COVERLET

My cowardice
Covers me safely
From everything...

From cold, which makes me yield
And quietly die
Beneath the snow;

From heat, which makes me faint
Until cool nothingness receives me;

From hurt, (Seize me, O Lion,
And I shall die of fright
Before I feel your teeth!)

From love,
Yes, most of all from love.

How can love touch me? 
Is it not heat,
Or cold,
Or a lion?

My cowardice covers me
Safely
From everything!

II.  THE PILLOW

To know you think of me
Sustains my Spirit
Through the long night.

(My thought of you
Is wine, banishing sleep!)

Your thoughts of me are feathers,
Light nothings,
Drifting, dancing,
Floating,
Blown by a breath of fancy
Away from your sight.

They would choke me,
They would blind me
With the Nothing I am to you
If I dared see them;
But I bind them into a pillow,
And to know that you think of me
Sustains my spirit
Through the night.

III.  SOUVENIR

Harlequin, seeing me gay
You loved me,
For fools need mirth,

O solemn Harlequin!

Tall tragedians make me laugh
Joyously, riotously,
Tall, dark villains, and heroes with blonde hair
Make me laugh uproariously... 
(I could elope with a tragedian!)

But you with your clowning, Harlequin,
Brought bony truth too near—­

Harlequin, I might have loved you
But I could not make you gay!

IV.  THE CURTAIN

I do not fear
You, or me, or death,