RED BROOM-HANDLES
67
And who will buy these wild, red-handled brooms? I see the housewife look at them askance, Fearing them partners in some eldritch danceAbout the decent privacy of rooms: I see a little child with longing eyes Wishing that mothers were not always wise!
One pictures Red Shoes in the German tale, Of how she pirouetted into Hell, Leaving two ghostly shoes the tale to tell,And make the vanity of madchen[1] quail! Dancing forever 'neath the varying moon, A skeleton—upheld by prancing shoon!
I know not where the carter took his load; Did it go crawling up the wattled hills Leaving a carmine quiver in the rills,A curl of dust along the sunny road? Or in the suburbs, halt at every door, Proffering a magic for the common floor?
Perhaps, before it scaled the gum-topped range, The witches saw it from a distant peak And promptly swooped, new riding-hacks to seek!The placid driver may have thought it strange That from a pipe-soothed day-dream he should start To find the greedy hags had bared his cart!
Jogging across the bridge the traffic through, Weaving against its dun a scarlet thread, Arresting as some beacon message, spedAlong far vistas infinitely blue, Where cobwebs of archaic systems sway Red Revolution—sweeping creeds away!
- ↑ Madchen—German for girl.
