Part 6

One day the master of the village school Passed 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 glass, 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 assault. 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-fashioned 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 shirt. 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

Down the side of your face. What a pretty, red line! Tell the taverns that scar Was an honour. Don't whine That a stranger has marked you. * * * * * The tree's there, You Swine!

Did you think to get in At the back, while your friends Made a little diversion In front? So it ends, With your sword clattering down On the ground. 'Tis amends

I make for your courteous Reception of me, A foreigner, landed From over the sea. Your welcome was fervent I think you'll agree.

My shoes are not buckled With gold, nor my hair Oiled and scented, my jacket's Not satin, I wear Corded breeches, wide hats, And I make people stare!

So I do, but my heart Is the heart of a man, And my thoughts cannot twirl In the limited span 'Twixt my head and my heels, As some other men's can.

I have business more strange Than the shape of my boots, And my interests range From the sky, to the roots Of this dung-hill you live in, You half-rotted shoots

Of a mouldering tree! Here's at you, once more. You Apes! You Jack-fools! You can show me the door, And jeer at my ways, But you're pinked to the core.

And before I have done, I will prick my name in With the front of my steel, And your lily-white skin Shall be printed with me. For I've come here to win!

Absence

My cup is empty to-night, Cold and dry are its sides, Chilled by the wind from the open window. Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight. The room is filled with the strange scent Of wistaria blossoms. They sway in the moon's radiance And tap against the wall. But the cup of my heart is still, And cold, and empty.