But one there was who didn't care, Whatever the furious storm might dare, A wonderful, hook-nosed bright-eyed fellow In a thin brown cape and a cap of yellow That perched on his dripping coal-black hair. A red scarf set off his throat and bound him, Crossing his breast, and, winding round him, Flapped at his flank In a red streak dank; And his hose were red, with a purple sheen From his tunic's blue, and his shoes were green. He was most outlandishly patched together With ribbons of silk and tags of leather, And chains of silver and buttons of stone, And knobs of amber and polished bone, And a turquoise brooch and a collar of jade, And a belt and a pouch of rich brocade, And a gleaming dagger with inlaid blade And jewelled handle of burnished gold Rakishly stuck in the red scarf's fold-- A dress, in short, that might suit a wizard On a calm warm day In the month of May, But was hardly fit for an autumn blizzard. Whence had he come there? Who could say, As he swung through Danbury town that day, With a friendly light in his deep-set eyes, And his free wild gait and his upright bearing, And his air that nothing could well surprise, So bright it was and so bold and daring? He might have troubled the slothful ease Of the Great Mogul in a warlike fever; He might have bled for the Maccabees, Or risen, spurred By the Prophet's word, And swooped on the hosts of the unbeliever. Whatever his birth and his nomenclature, Something he seemed to have, some knowledge That never was taught at school or college, But was part of his very being's nature: Some ingrained lore that wanderers show As over the earth they come and go, Though they hardly know what it is they know. And so with his head upheld he walked, And ever the rain drove down; And now and again to himself he talked In the streets of Danbury town. And now and again he'd stop and troll A stave of music that seemed to roll From the inmost depths of his ardent soul; But the wind took hold of the notes and tossed them And the few who chanced to be near him lost them. So, moving on where his fancy listed, He came to a street that turned and twisted; And there by a shop-front dimly lighted He suddenly stopped as though affrighted, Stopped and stared with his deep gaze centred On something seen, like a dream's illusion, Through the streaming glass, mid the queer confusion Of objects littered on shelf and floor, And about the counter and by the door-- And then with his lips set tight he entered.