She came into my shop to-day,
The old maid from across the way,
With her pursed-up lips and disdainful mien
And her walk, each step with another between.

Her mouth drew up above her nose,
No wrinkles ever so sniffed as those.
Her dress was too long, too short, too square,
Each inch measured out with what should be there.

Her hair, a twisted wad of grey,
Tipped her hat in the strangest way
So that every angle hurt like a noise,
There was discord in its very poise.

Her eyeglass crystals made her eyes
Puff out to a prodigious size:
The opaque white of eggs much cooked
Shone dully everywhere she looked.

She minced up to the counter, said:
“I want three yards of ribbon—red.”
Sat down upon a stool and waited.
The tranquil atmosphere vibrated.

I bowed and brought a brilliant red,
Flaming and smooth as though each thread
Were new-run blood or molten glass.
She gave one look and let it pass.

I brought her scarlet, a poppy shade
Hot as a subaltern's cockade,
It darted out between my hands
Like a spurted flame of many strands.

She shook her head and murmured, “Crude.”
I brought her a damask whose lassitude
Was of pale boudoirs and midday wakings;
It slid from the roll in languid snakings.

Annoyed, she pushed it to one side.
A clear carnation next I tried,
Fresh as Spring wind. “Oh, no,” said she,
And tapped her foot impatiently.

I urged a cardinal crimson—she pouted.
Magenta, vermilion—both were flouted.
Carbuncle, ruby, cinnabar,
The counter looked like a mad bazaar.

One was too dull, the next too gay,
The next she fingered and turned away.
I tried thin ribbons of madder and lake,
Or wide russet sashes I hoped she would take.

I offered maroon with intriguing brightnesses,
I tendered a cherry streaked with whitenesses.
I gave her the claret of evening skies,
The silver-salmon of faint sunrise.

I brought down carmine doubled with gold.
I found pale buffs under which rolled
A faint suggestion of watchet or blue.
Nothing I showed her seemed to do.

I gave her plaid ribbons, chequered, shot.
Always she asked what more I had got.
I proffered striped satins, or grosgrain plain.
Whatever it was, I must try again.

The uncoiled ribbons grew and grew
Until I only saw her through
A hole in the pile. But her voice came clear:
“Have you no more, there is nothing here.”

I climbed down ladders with boxes balanced
In either hand. Under the valanced
Counters I dove for still more bolts.
She pronounced all ribbon designers dolts.

Neither colour, nor texture, nor price would suit,
She must see more. So to the root
Of my stock I went, unwinding, displaying—
Her chilly voice simply went on saying

That all was wrong, one way or another.
I began to wonder if I should smother
Under those rubicund twining strips,
When wanly fell from the pursed-up lips:

“You have so little to choose from here,
And what you have so excessively dear,
I will take two packets of pins. Nothing more.”
And paying me she tripped through the door.

The sun was setting, the ribbons looked dull,
The heap had assumed the form of a skull.
The hollow eyes winked, the loose jaw made
A grimace at the fool who sold beauty in trade.

The wind whispered under the shop-door sill,
“Loveliness! Loveliness! Where you will.
Make it, give it, but put it on sale,
A bale of goods is only a bale.”

The primrose moon through the windowpane
Misted the skull with saffron rain.
Gold as a guinea it lured and shone
At the tradesman standing there alone.
From the old clock tower of carven stone
The hour chimed in a hollow tone,
Three peals of bells for a quarter past one.