Poetry Archives

Max mended an old goosequill by the fire,
Loathing his work, but seeing no thing to do.
He felt his hands were building up the pyre
To burn two souls, and seized with vertigo
He staggered to his chair.  Before him lay
White paper still unspotted by a crime.
“Now, young man, write,” said Grootver in his ear.
“‘If in two years my vessel should yet stay
From Amsterdam, I give Grootver, sometime
A friend, my daughter for his lawful wife.’  Now swear.”