Poetry Archives

Softly he knocked against the casement, wide
It flew, and a cracked voice his business there
Demanded.  The door opened, and inside
Max stepped.  He saw a candle held in air
Above the head of a gray-bearded Jew.
“Simeon Isaacs, Mynheer, can I serve
You?”  “Yes, I think you can.  Do you keep arms?
I want a pistol.”  Quick the old man grew
Livid.  “Mynheer, a pistol!  Let me swerve
You from your purpose.  Life brings often false alarms—”