The Peddler

Lend me, a little while, the

That locks your heavy heart, and I'll give you back—Rarer than books and ribbons and beads bright to see,

This little Key of Dreams out of my pack.

The road, the road, beyond men's bolted doors,

There shall I walk and you go free of me,

For yours lies North across the moors,

And mine lies South.

To what seas?

How if we stopped and let our solemn selves go by,

While my gay ghost caught and kissed yours, as ghosts don't do,

And by the wayside, this forgotten you and

Sat, and were twenty-two?

Give me the key that locks your tired eyes,

And I will lend you this one from my pack,

Brighter than colored beads and painted books that make men wise:

Take it.

No, give it back!