A Glimpse Of China. In A Chair.

(Foo-chow.) From the bright and blinding sunshine, From the whirling locust's song, Into the dark and narrow fissures Of the streets I am borne along. Here and there dusky-beaming A sun-shaft broadens and drops On the brown bare crowd slow-passing The crowd of the open shops. We move on over the bridges With their straight-hewn blocks of stone. And their quaint grey animal figures, And the booths the hucksters own. Behind a linen awning Sits an ancient wight half-dead, And a little dear of a girl is Examining—his head. On a bended bamboo shouldered, Bearing a block of stone, Two worn-out coolies half-naked Utter their grunting groan. Children, almond-eyed beauties, Impossibly mangy curs, Take part in the motley stream of Insouciant passengers. This is the dream, the vision That comes to me and greets— The vision of Retribution In the labyrinthine streets!