by Eugene Lee-Hamilton
At last I have them back, and feast my gaze.
They gleam more crimson for the blood they've cost.
And sparkle like the murder-reddened frost,
As every little facet winks and plays.
True, I did sell them,—but within three days
I've made them trickle back—the loved, the lost—
From off a dagger's point: and one more ghost
Now lives in ghost-land. Mine are rapid ways.
Who forced the fool to buy them? Did he think
A man can work for years at stones like these,
Then sell them and forget them? That the chink
Of his base gold could silence and appease
The lapidary's love? I crouch and drink
Their colour like red wine … with blood for lees.
Last updated November 21, 2017