Should I some day in person journey with it,
My honourable father would welcome his little son.
He would not see this worn and tattered one,
This lean and sorrowful son of the waterside.
He would not see this parchment face,
This figure without lustre.
He would see his little son who left him long ago;
For love would brush away the husk of years,
And leave a little child.
Of Worship and Conduct
At the corner of the Causeway on every seventh evening
Gathers the band of Salvation Army,
Making big noise of Washed-in-Blood-of-Lamb.
At temple in East India Dock Road
Men gather in white clothes, and sing,
And march with candles and pray to Lady.
At shop in Pennyfields, many times a day,
This person pays respect to Big Man Joss,
And burns to him prayer-papers and punk-sticks.
And all day long men toil for wife and child;
Wife suffer and stint to make bigger plate for child;
Child beg in street to get food for sick mother;
Sister wear ragged clothes for sake of little brother.
And none of these has bowed to Joss,
Or marched with candle,
Or washed in blood of Lamb.
Going to Market
Good morning, Mister, how do you do?
I am going to Salmon Lane, to the cheap market for dainty foods.
Won't you come with me, Mister?
I shall buy meat and fish and a loaf of bread,
And fresh fruit and potatoes;
I shall buy a cluster of flowers and a bottle of wine,
Some butter and some jam,
And biscuits, and nuts and candy.
For I give an English feast to-night to a friend with yellow curls,
And every dish will be cooked by me.
Into the pot will go sharp spices,
To flavour your English meats:
Cayenne and thyme, and sage and salt,
A sprig of parsley for garnish,
And some delicate bamboo shoots.
But the sweetest spice will not be seen,
It will leap from my heart to the pot as I stir it.
I am going to gather it on the way to the market
From my own sweet thoughts and from elegant conversation
With notable misters.
Won't you come with me?