My thanks to God, to Mary, and the angels, I still have bags of money, and can buy Meal from the merchants who have stored it up, To prosper on the hunger of the poor. You have been far, and know the signs of things: When will this yellow vapour no more hang And creep about the fields, and this great heat Vanish away—and grass show its green shoots? FIRST MERCHANT. There is no sign of change—day copies day, Green things are dead—the cattle too are dead, Or dying—and on all the vapour hangs And fattens with disease and glows with heat. In you is all the hope of all the land. CATHLEEN. And heard you of the demons who buy souls? FIRST MERCHANT. There are some men who hold they have wolves’ heads, And say their limbs, dried by the infinite flame, Have all the speed of storms; others again Say they are gross and little; while a few Will have it they seem much as mortals are, But tall and brown and travelled, like us, lady. Yet all agree a power is in their looks That makes men bow, and flings a casting-net About their souls, and that all men would go And barter those poor flames—their spirits—only You bribe them with the safety of your gold. CATHLEEN. Praise be to God, to Mary, and the angels, That I am wealthy. Wherefore do they sell? FIRST MERCHANT. The demons give a hundred crowns and more For a poor soul like his who lies asleep By your great door under the porter’s niche; A little soul not worth a hundred pence. But, for a soul like yours, I heard them say, They would give five hundred thousand crowns and more. CATHLEEN. How can a heap of crowns pay for a soul? Is the green grave so terrible a thing? FIRST MERCHANT. Some sell because the money gleams, and some Because they are in terror of the grave, And some because their neighbours sold before, And some because there is a kind of joy In casting hope away, in losing joy, In ceasing all resistance, in at last Opening one’s arms to the eternal flames, In casting all sails out upon the wind: To this—full of the gaiety of the lost— Would all folk hurry if your gold were gone. CATHLEEN. There is a something, merchant, in your voice That makes me fear. When you were telling how A man may lose his soul and lose his God, Your eyes lighted, and the strange weariness That hangs about you vanished. When you told How my poor money serves the people—both— Merchants, forgive me—seemed to smile. FIRST MERCHANT. Man’s sins Move us to laughter only, we have seen So many lands and seen so many men. How strange that all these people should be swung As on a lady’s shoe-string—under them The glowing leagues of never-ending flame! CATHLEEN.