On a bended bamboo shouldered,
Bearing a block of stone,
Two worn-out coolies half-naked
Utter their grunting groan.
Children, almond-eyed beauties,
Impossibly mangy curs,
Take part in the motley stream of
Insouciant passengers.
This is the dream, the vision
That comes to me and greets—
The vision of Retribution
In the labyrinthine streets!
III.
“caste.”
These Chinese toil and yet they do not starve,
And they obey, and yet they are not slaves.
It is the “free-born” fuddled Englishmen
That grovel rotting in their living graves.
These Chinese do not fawn with servile lips;
They lift up equal eyes that ask and scan.
Their degradation has escaped at least
That choicest curse of all—the gentleman!
IV.
over the samovar. [69a]
(Foo-chow.)
“Yes, I used always to think
That you Russians knew
How to make the good drink
As none others do.
“And I thought moreover,
(Not with the epicures),
You might search the world over
For such women as yours.
“In both these matters now
I perceive I was right,
And I really can’t tell you how
Much I delight