tly inferior.

It is odd.
At home I am a democrat. A republic, a true republic,
seems not improbable, a fighting dream.
Yet beholding the back of the ears of a trotting man
I perceive it to be impossible--the millennium
another million years away.
I grow insufferably superior and Anglo-Saxon.
I am sorry, but what would you?
One is what one is.

Hankow

The Camels

Whence do you come, and whither make return, you
silent padding beasts?
Over the mountain passes; through the Great Wall; to
Kalgan--and beyond, whither?...

Here in the city you are alien, even as I am alien.
Your sidling jaw, your pendulous neck--incredible--and
that slow smile about your eyes and lip,
these are not of this land.
About you some far sense of mystery, some tawny
charm, hangs ever.
Silently, with the dignity of the desert, your caravans
move among the hurrying hordes, remote and
slowly smiling.

But whence are you, and whither do you make return?
Over the mountain passes; through the Great Wall; to
Kalgan--and beyond, whither?...

Peking

The Connoisseur: An American

He is not an old man, but he is lonely.
He who was born in the clash of a western city dwells
here, in this silent courtyard, alone.
Seven servants he has, seven men-servants. They
move about quietly and their slippered feet make
no sound. Behind their almond eyes move green,
sidelong shadows, and their limber hands are
never still.
In his house the riches of the Orient are gathered.
Ivory he has, carved in a thousand quaint, enticing
shapes--pleasant to the hand, smooth with the
caressing of many fingers.
And jade is there, dark green and milky white, with
amber from Korea and strange gems--beryl,
chrysoprase, jasper, sardonyx....
His lacquered shelves hold priceless pottery--peachblow
and cinnabar and silver grey--pottery
glazed like the new moon, fired how long ago
for a moon-pale princess of the East, whose very
name is dust!

In his vaults are incredible textures and colors that
vibrate like struck jade.

Stiff with gold brocade they are, or soft as the coat of
a fawn--these sacred robes of a long dead priest,
silks of a gold-skinned courtesan, embroideries of
a lost throne.
When he unfolds them the shimmering heaps are like
living opals, burning and moving darkly with the
warm breath of beauty.

And other priceless