scarlet bearer-chair, a pipe for opium....
Whatever life has need of, it is here,
And it is for the dead.

Whatever life has need of, it is here. Yet it is here in
sham, in effigy, in tortured compromise.
The dead have need of silk. Yet silk is dear, and
there are living backs to clothe.
The rolls are paper.... Do not look too close.

The dead I think will understand.
The carvings, too, the bearer-chair, the jade--yes,
they are paper; and the shining ingots, they are
tinsel.
Yet they are made with skill and loving care!
And if the priest knows--surely he must know!--
when they are burned they'll serve the dead as
well as verities.
So living mouths can feed.

The master of the shop is a pious man. He has attained
much honor and his white moustache droops
below his chin.
"Such an one" he says "I burned for my own father.
And such an one my son will burn for me.
For I am old, and half my life already dwells among
the dead."

And, as he speaks, behind him in the shop I feel the
presence of a hovering host, the myriads of the