need."
      He took up the grains with a gentle hand
      And sifted them slowly like hour-glass sand.
      On his old white finger the almandine
      Shot out its rays, incarnadine.
      "Visions for those too tired to sleep.
      These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep.
      No single soul in the world could dwell,
      Without these poppy-seeds I sell."
      For a moment he played with the shining stuff,
      Passing it through his fingers.  Enough
      At last, he poured it back into
      The china jar of Holland blue,
      Which he carefully carried to its place.
      Then, with a smile on his aged face,
      He drew up a chair to the open space
      'Twixt table and chimney.  "Without preface,
      Young man, I will say that what you see
      Is not the puzzle you take it to be."
      "But surely, Sir, there is something strange
      In a shop with goods at so wide a range
      Each from the other, as swords and seeds.
      Your neighbours must have greatly differing needs."
      "My neighbours," he said, and he stroked his chin,
      "Live everywhere from here to Pekin.
      But you are wrong, my sort of goods
      Is but one thing in all its moods."
      He took a shagreen letter case
      From his pocket, and with charming grace
      Offered me a printed card.
      I read the legend, "Ephraim Bard.
      Dealer in Words."  And that was all.
      I stared at the letters, whimsical
      Indeed, or was it merely a jest.
      He answered my unasked request:
      "All books are either dreams or swords,
      You can cut, or you can drug, with words.
      My firm is a very ancient house,
      The entries on my books would rouse
      Your wonder, perhaps incredulity.
      I inherited from an ancestry
      Stretching remotely back and far,
      This business, and my clients are
      As were those of my grandfather's days,
      Writers of books, and poems, and plays.
      My swords are tempered for every speech,
      For fencing wit, or to carve a breach
      Through old abuses the world condones.
      In another room are my grindstones and hones,
      For whetting razors and putting a point
      On daggers, sometimes I even anoint
      The blades with a subtle poison, so
      A twofold result may follow the blow.
      These are purchased by men who feel
      The need of stabbing society's heel,
      Which egotism has brought them to think
      Is set on their necks.  I have foils to pink
      An adversary to quaint reply,
      And I have customers who buy
      Scalpels with which to dissect the brains
      And hearts of men.  Ultramundanes
      Even demand some finer kinds
      To open their own souls and minds.
      But the other half of my business deals
      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,
      All which could hold or bind; must prove
      The farthest boundaries of thought,
      And shun no end which these have brought;
      Then die in satisfaction, knowing
      That what was sown was worth the sowing.
      I claim for all the goods I sell
      That they will serve their purpose well,
      And though you perish, they will live.
      Full measure for your pay I give.
      To-day you worked, you thought, in vain.
      What since has happened is the train
      Your toiling brought.  I spoke to you
      For my share of the bargain, due."
      "My life!  And is that all you crave
      In pay?  What even childhood gave!
      I have been dedicate from youth.
      Before my God I speak the truth!"
      Fatigue, excitement of the past
      Few hours broke me down at last.
      All day I had forgot to eat,
      My nerves betrayed me, lacking meat.
      I bowed my head and felt the storm
      Plough shattering through my prostrate form.
      The tearless sobs tore at my heart.
      My host withdrew himself apart;
      Busied among his crockery,
      He paid no