Poetry Archives

Max Breuck unclasped his broadcloth cloak, and sat.
“Well thought of, Franz; here’s luck to Mynheer Jan.”
The host set down a jar; then to a vat
Lost in the distance of his cellar, ran.
Max took a pipe as graceful as the stem
Of some long tulip, crammed it full, and drew
The pungent smoke deep to his grateful lung.
It curled all blue throughout the cave and flew
Into the silver night.  At once there flung
Into the crowded shop a boy, who cried to them: