I have lifted her over my threshold to-night.
Many moons have risen and set since she received my napi;
But now she is here and has entered my upper room,
Where is a shrine for the joss of happiness,
And a soft couch and delicate hanging,
And fine things for fine fingers to handle,
And shaded lanterns and a guitar and my machine-that-sings.
There are ornaments of jade and lacquer,
And the bamboo pipe and the hap-heem that I have laid aside,
And the written leaves containing my verses.
But there are no writing tables, no ink and no brushes.
For now my verses will be written upon her brow.
Footsteps
As I lie on my pallet at night
I hear from the street the sound of passing footsteps;
And I can sort and name these passing footsteps.
There are the truculent steps of the seeker after trouble,
There are the fearful feet of those who are not at ease
In the implacable streets.
There are the fugitive feet of crime,
And the solemn reassuring tread of big policemen;
And the interrupted steps of the revellers,
And the fleet feet of those who have purchased trouble.
But those that tread most heavily on my heart
Are the light and lingering footsteps of tired young women.
Making a Feast
Ho! Friends and enemies of Pennyfields,
A feast is spread, and you are all invited.
Many tides have risen and retired
Since I left the fervid skies of my own country
For the thin skies and leaden streets of the West.
Long have I sojourned, seeking my desire,
Keeping my shop, and looking always with long eyes
At others' guesting-tables, at whose top sat love.
From my cold corner
I have watched their feast of fondness, and my heart has flown away,
And has beaten like a lost bird at their windows,
And none would let him in.
But now, O honourables,
My window is alight, my room is warmed,
The table is set and the places are laid, and Love waits to greet you.
The Case of Ho Ling