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

(C) 2013 Как раскрутить сайт навсегда