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 things the collector has, so that
    in many days he could not look upon them all. 
Every morning his seven men-servants dress him, and
    every evening they undress him.  Behind their
    almond eyes move green sidelong shadows. 
In this silent courtyard the collector lives. 
He is not an old man but he is lonely.