Poetry Archives

Max Breuck was honour’s soul, he knew himself
The guardian of this girl; no more, no less.
As one in charge of guineas on a shelf
Loose in a china teapot, may confess
His need, but may not borrow till his friend
Comes back to give.  So Max, in honour, said
No word of love or marriage; but the days
He clipped off on his almanac.  The end
Must come!  The second year, with feet of lead,
Lagged slowly by till Spring had plumped the willow sprays.