Poetry Archives

My ship’s the fastest that owns Amsterdam
As home, so not a letter can you send.
I shall be back, before to where I am
Another ship could reach.  Now your stipend—”
Quickly Breuck interposed.  “When you once more
Tread on the stones which pave our streets.— Good night!
To-morrow I will be, at stroke of noon,
At the great wharf.”  Then hurrying, in spite
Of cake and wine the old man pressed upon
Him ere he went, he took his leave and shut the door.