Interlude
It is going to be hot here.
Already the sun is treacherous and a dull mugginess is
in the air. I note that winter clothes are shedding
one by one.
In the market-place sits a coolie, expanding in the warmth. He has opened his ragged upper garments and his bronze body is naked to the belt. He is examining it minutely, occasionally picking at something with the dainty hand of the Orient. If he had ever seen a zoological garden I should say he was imitating the monkeys there. As he has not, I dare say the taste is ingrained.
At all events it is going to be hot here.
The Village of the Mud Idols
The City Wall
About the city where I dwell, guarding it close, runs
an embattled wall.
It was not new I think when Arthur was a king, and
plumèd knights before a British wall made brave
clangor of trumpets, that Launcelot came forth.
It was not new I think, and now not it but chivalry is
old.
Without, the wall is brick, with slots for firing, and it
drops straightway into the evil moat, where offal
floats and nameless things are thrown.
Within, the wall is earth; it slants more gently down,
covered with grass and stubbly with cut weeds.
Below it in straw lairs the beggars herd, patiently
whining, stretching out their sores.
And on the top a path runs.
As I walk, lifted above the squalor and the dirt, the timeless miracle of sunset mantles in the west, The blue dusk gathers close And beauty moves immortal through the land. And I walk quickly, praying in my heart that beauty will defend me, will heal up the too great wounds of China.
I will not look—to-night I will not look—where at
my feet the little coffins are,
The boxes where the beggar children lie, unburied
and unwatched.
I will not look again, for once I saw how one was
broken, torn by the sharp teeth of dogs. A little
tattered dress was there, and some crunched
bones….
I need not look. What can it help to look?