The impact of a million dollars Is a crash of flunkys, And yawning emblems of Persia Cheeked against oak, France and a sabre, The outcry of old beauty Whored by pimping merchants To submission before wine and chatter. Silly rich peasants stamp the carpets of men, Dead men who dreamed fragrance and light Into their woof, their lives; The rug of an honest bear Under the feet of a cryptic slave Who speaks always of baubles, Forgetting state, multitude, work, and state, Champing and mouthing of hats, Making ratful squeak of hats, Hats. A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist!" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me "A sense of obligation." When the prophet, a complacent fat man, Arrived at the mountain-top, He cried: "Woe to my knowledge! "I intended to see good white lands "And bad black lands, "But the scene is grey." There was a land where lived no violets. A traveller at once demanded: "Why?" The people told him: "Once the violets of this place spoke thus: "'Until some woman freely give her lover "'To another woman "'We will fight in bloody scuffle.'" Sadly the people added: "There are no violets here." There was one I met upon the road Who looked at me with kind eyes. He said: "Show me of your wares." And I did, Holding forth one, He said: "It is a sin." Then I held forth another. He said: "It is a sin." Then I held forth another. He said: "It is a sin." And so to the end. Always He said: "It is a sin." At last, I cried out: "But I have non other." He looked at me With kinder eyes. "Poor soul," he said. Aye, workman, make me a dream, A dream for my love. Cunningly weave sunlight, Breezes, and flowers. Let it be of the cloth of meadows. And--good workman-- And let there be a man walking thereon. Each small gleam was a voice, A lantern voice-- In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold. A chorus of colors came over the water; The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered, No pines crooned on the hills, The blue night was elsewhere a silence, When the chorus of colors came over the water, Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold. Small glowing pebbles Thrown on the dark plane of evening Sing good ballads of God And eternity, with soul's rest. Little priests, little holy fathers, None can doubt the truth of hour hymning. When the marvellous chorus comes over the water, Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.