Colors
(For D. M. C.)
The little man with the vague beard and guisePulled at the wicket. “Come inside!” he said,“I’ll show you all we’ve got now—it was sizeYou wanted?—oh, dry colors! Well”—he ledTo a dim alley lined with musty bins,And pulled one fiercely. Violent and boldA sudden tempest of mad, shrieking sinsScarlet screamed out above the battered goldOf tins and picture-frames. I held my breath.He tugged another hard—and sapphire skiesSpread in vast quietude, serene as death,O’er waves like crackled turquoise—and my eyesBurnt with the blinding brilliance of calm sea!“We’re selling that lot there out cheap!” said he.