The Pedlar

Hark, people, to the cry

Of this curious young magician-pedlar

Seeking a golden bowl!

He wanders through the city

Offering useful tin-ware

For all the ancient metal

You have left to rust

In the dim, dusty attic

Or mouldy cellar

Of your soul.

He refuses nothing —

Rusty nails

Which may have played their part

In a crucifixion —

For ten of these he will give

A new tin spoon.

The andirons

Once guarding hearth-fires of content,

Now dusty and forgotten

In an obscure corner,

He will give for these

A new tin tea-kettle

With a wooden handle.

And for this antique bowl

Fashioned to hold

Roses or wine?

The eyes of the pedlar glisten!

O woman, if acid reveal

Gold beneath the tarnished surface

He will gladly give you

His hands, his eyes, his soul,

His young, white body —

If not,

A mocking laugh

And a bright tin sieve

To hold your wine

And roses.