With visions and fancies. Under seals,

Sorted, and placed in vessels here,

I keep the seeds of an atmosphere.

Each jar contains a different kind

Of poppy seed. From farthest Ind

Come the purple flowers, opium filled,

From which the weirdest myths are distilled;

My orient porcelains contain them all.

Those Lowestoft pitchers against the wall

Hold a lighter kind of bright conceit;

And those old Saxe vases, out of the heat

On that lowest shelf beside the door,

Have a sort of Ideal, "couleur d'or".

Every castle of the air

Sleeps in the fine black grains, and there

Are seeds for every romance, or light

Whiff of a dream for a summer night.

I supply to every want and taste."

'Twas slowly said, in no great haste

He seemed to push his wares, but I

Dumfounded listened. By and by

A log on the fire broke in two.

He looked up quickly, "Sir, and you?"

I groped for something I should say;

Amazement held me numb. "To-day

You sweated at a fruitless task."

He spoke for me, "What do you ask?

How can I serve you?" "My kind host,

My penniless state was not a boast;

I have no money with me." He smiled.

"Not for that money I beguiled

You here; you paid me in advance."

Again I felt as though a trance

Had dimmed my faculties. Again

He spoke, and this time to explain.

"The money I demand is Life,

Your nervous force, your joy, your strife!"

What infamous proposal now

Was made me with so calm a brow?

Bursting through my lethargy,

Indignantly I hurled the cry:

"Is this a nightmare, or am I

Drunk with some infernal wine?

I am no Faust, and what is mine

Is what I call my soul! Old Man!

Devil or Ghost! Your hellish plan

Revolts me. Let me go." "My child,"

And the old tones were very mild,

"I have no wish to barter souls;

My traffic does not ask such tolls.

I am no devil; is there one?

Surely the age of fear is gone.

We live within a daylight world

Lit by the sun, where winds unfurled

Sweep clouds to scatter pattering rain,

And then blow back the sun again.

I sell my fancies, or my swords,

To those who care far more for words,

Ideas, of which they are the sign,

Than any other life-design.

Who buy of me must simply pay

Their whole existence quite away:

Their strength, their manhood, and their prime,

Their hours from morning till the time

When evening comes on tiptoe feet,

And losing life, think it complete;

Must miss what other men count being,

To gain the gift of deeper seeing;

Must spurn all ease, all hindering love,

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