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.