What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries,Of outworn, childish mysteries,Vague pageants woven on a web of dream!And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid streamOf modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries.Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees,The layered branches horizontal stretched, like JapaneseDark-banded prints. Carven cathedrals, on a skyOf faintest colour, where the gothic spires flyAnd sway like masts, against a shifting breeze.Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunkFrom over-handling, by some anxious monk.Or Virgin's Hours, bright with gold and gravenWith flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven,And Noah's ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk.They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sungBy youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flungIn cadences and falls, to ease a queen,Widowed and childless, cowering in a screenOf myrtles, whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung.
They have watered the street,It shines in the glare of lamps,Cold, white lamps,And liesLike a slow-moving river,Barred with silver and black.Cabs go down it,One,And then another.Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.Tramps doze on the window-ledges,Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.The city is squalid and sinister,With the silver-barred street in the midst,Slow-moving,A river leading nowhere.Opposite my window,The moon cuts,Clear and round,Through the plum-coloured night.She cannot light the city;It is too bright.It has white lamps,And glitters coldly.I stand in the window and watch the moon.She is thin and lustreless,But I love her.I know the moon,And this is an alien city.
To Ezra PoundWith much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion
The Poet took his walking-stickOf fine and polished ebony.Set in the close-grained woodWere quaint devices;Patterns in ambers,And in the clouded green of jades.The top was of smooth, yellow ivory,And a tassel of tarnished goldHung by a faded cord from a holePierced in the hard wood,Circled with silver.For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane.His wealth had gone to enrich it,His experiences to pattern it,His labour to fashion and burnish it.To him it was perfect,A work of art and a weapon,A delight and a defence.The Poet took his walking-stickAnd walked abroad.Peace be with you, Brother.
The Poet came to a meadow.Sifted through the grass were daisies,Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun.The Poet struck them with his cane.The little heads flew off, and they layDying, open-mouthed and wondering,On the hard ground."They are useless. They are not roses," said the Poet.Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways.
The Poet came to a stream.Purple and blue flags waded in the water;In among them hopped the speckled frogs;The wind slid through them, rustling.The Poet lifted his cane,And the iris heads fell into the water.They floated away, torn and drowning."Wretched flowers," said the Poet,"They are not roses."Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair.
The Poet came to a garden.Dahlias ripened against a wall,Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature,And a trumpet-vine covered an arbourWith the red and gold of its blossoms.Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets.The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias,And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground.Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems.Red and gold they lay scattered,Red and gold, as on a battle field;Red and gold, prone and dying."They were not roses," said the Poet.Peace be with you, Brother.But behind you is destruction, and waste places.
The Poet came home at evening,And in the candle-lightHe wiped and polished his cane.The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers,And made the jades undulate like green pools.It played along the bright ebony,And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory.But these things were dead,Only the candle-light made them seem to move."It is a pity there were no roses," said the Poet.Peace be with you, Brother. You have chosen your part.
He perches in the slime, inert,Bedaubed with iridescent dirt.The oil upon the puddles driesTo colours like a peacock's eyes,And half-submerged tomato-cansShine scaly, as leviathansOozily crawling through the mud.The ground is here and there bestudWith lumps of only part-burned coal.His duty is to glean the whole,To pick them from the filth, each one,To hoard them for the hidden sunWhich glows within each fiery coreAnd waits to be made free once more.Their sharp and glistening edges cutHis stiffened fingers. Through the smutGleam red the wounds which will not shut.Wet through and shivering he kneelsAnd digs the slippery coals; like eelsThey slide about. His force all spent,He counts his small accomplishment.A half-a-dozen clinker-coalsWhich still have fire in their souls.Fire! And in his thought there burnsThe topaz fire of votive urns.He sees it fling from hill to hill,And still consumed, is burning still.Higher and higher leaps the flame,The smoke an ever-shifting frame.He sees a Spanish Castle old,With silver steps and paths of gold.From myrtle bowers comes the plashOf fountains, and the emerald flashOf parrots in the orange trees,Whose blossoms pasture humming bees.He knows he feeds the urns whose smokeBears visions, that his master-strokeIs out of dirt and miseryTo light the fire of poesy.He sees the glory, yet he knowsThat others cannot see his shows.To them his smoke is sightless, black,His votive vessels but a packOf old discarded shards, his fireA peddler's; still to him the pyreIs incensed, an enduring goal!He sighs and grubs another coal.
How should I sing when buffeting salt wavesAnd stung with bitter surges, in whose mightI toss, a cockleshell? The dreadful nightMarshals its undefeated dark and ravesIn brutal madness, reeling over gravesOf vanquished men, long-sunken out of sight,Sent wailing down to glut the ghoulish spriteWho haunts foul seaweed forests and their caves.No parting cloud reveals a watery star,My cries are washed away upon the wind,My cramped and blistering hands can find no spar,My eyes with hope o'erstrained, are growing blind.But painted on the sky great visions burn,My voice, oblation from a shattered urn!
From out the dragging vastness of the sea,Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, seaweed strands,He toils toward the rounding beach, and standsOne moment, white and dripping, silently,Cut like a cameo in lazuli,Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and landsProne in the jeering water, and his handsClutch for support where no support can be.So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch,He gains upon the shore, where poppies glowAnd sandflies dance their little lives away.The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinchThe weeds about him, but the land-winds blow,And in the sky there blooms the sun of May.
Be patient with you?When the stooping skyLeans down upon the hillsAnd tenderly, as one who soothing stillsAn anguish, gathers earth to lieEmbraced and girdled. Do the sun-filled menFeel patience then?Be patient with you?When the snow-girt earthCracks to let through a spurtOf sudden green, and from the muddy dirtA snowdrop leaps, how mark its worthTo eyes frost-hardened, and do weary menFeel patience then?Be patient with you?When pain's iron barsTheir rivets tighten, sternTo bend and break their victims; as they turn,Hopeless, there stand the purple jarsOf night to spill oblivion. Do these menFeel patience then?Be patient with you?You! My sun and moon!My basketful of flowers!My money-bag of shining dreams! My hours,Windless and still, of afternoon!You are my world and I your citizen.What meaning can have patience then?
Be not angry with me that I bearYour colours everywhere,All through each crowded street,And meetThe wonder-light in every eye,As I go by.Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze,Blinded by rainbow haze,The stuff of happiness,No less,Which wraps me in its glad-hued foldsOf peacock golds.Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved wayFlushes beneath its gray.My steps fall ringed with light,So bright,It seems a myriad suns are strownAbout the town.Around me is the sound of steepled bells,And rich perfumed smellsHang like a wind-forgotten cloud,And shroudMe from close contact with the world.I dwell impearled.You blazon me with jewelled insignia.A flaming nebulaRims in my life. And yetYou setThe word upon me, unconfessedTo go unguessed.
I pray to be the tool which to your handLong use has shaped and moulded till it beApt for your need, and, unconsideringly,You take it for its service. I demandTo be forgotten in the woven strandWhich grows the multi-coloured tapestryOf your bright life, and through its tissues lieA hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band.I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams,The railing to the stairway of the clouds,To guard your steps securely up, where streamsA faery moonshine washing pale the crowdsOf pointed stars. Remember not wherebyYou mount, protected, to the far-flung sky.
Before me lies a mass of shapeless days,Unseparated atoms, and I mustSort them apart and live them. Sifted dustCovers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays,There are none, ever. As a monk who praysThe sliding beads asunder, so I thrustEach tasteless particle aside, and justBegin again the task which never stays.And I have known a glory of great suns,When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire!Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire,And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs!Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty handThrew down the cup, and did not understand.
Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touchI broke and bruised your rose.I hardly could supposeIt were a thing so fragile that my clutchCould kill it, thus.It stood so proudly up upon its stem,I knew no thought of fear,And coming very nearFell, overbalanced, to your garment's hem,Tearing it down.Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one,The crimson petals, allOutspread about my fall.They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red coneOf memory.And with my words I carve a little jarTo keep their scented dust,Which, opening, you mustBreathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me farMore grieved than you.
An arid daylight shines along the beachDried to a grey monotony of tone,And stranded jelly-fish melt soft uponThe sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reachSparkles a wet, reviving sea. Here bleachThe skeletons of fishes, every bonePolished and stark, like traceries of stone,The joints and knuckles hardened each to each.And they are dead while waiting for the sea,The moon-pursuing sea, to come again.Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze.Only the shells and stones can wait to beWashed bright. For living things, who suffer pain,May not endure till time can bring them ease.
Happiness, to some, elation;Is, to others, mere stagnation.Days of passive somnolence,At its wildest, indolence.Hours of empty quietness,No delight, and no distress.Happiness to me is wine,Effervescent, superfine.Full of tang and fiery pleasure,Far too hot to leave me leisureFor a single thought beyond it.Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: itMeans to give one's soul to gainLife's quintessence. Even painPricks to livelier living, thenWakes the nerves to laugh again,Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.Although we must die to-morrow,Losing every thought but this;Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss.Happiness: We rarely feel it.I would buy it, beg it, steal it,Pay in coins of dripping bloodFor this one transcendent good.
How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life,A spatter of rust on its polished steel!The seasons reelLike a goaded wheel.Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife.The night is sliding towards the dawn,And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees.A torn moon fleesThrough the hemlock trees,The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn.Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thingA rabble of clouds flares out of the east.Like dogs unleashedAfter a beast,They stream on the sky, an outflung string.A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark,Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests,And the fierce unrestsI keep as guestsCrowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark.Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who hauntMy labouring mind, I have fought and failed.I have not quailed,I was all unmailedAnd naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt.The moon drops into the silver dayAs waking out of her swoon she comes.I hear the drumsOf millenniumsBeating the mornings I still must stay.The years I must watch go in and out,While I build with water, and dig in air,And the trumpets blareHollow despair,The shuddering trumpets of utter rout.An atom tossed in a chaos madeOf yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam.Whence have I come?What would be home?I hear no answer. I am afraid!I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame.Pushed into nothingness by a breath,And quench in a wreathOf engulfing deathThis fight for a God, or this devil's game.
There once was a man whom the gods didn't love,And a disagreeable man was he.He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him,And he cursed eternally.He damned the sun, and he damned the stars,And he blasted the winds in the sky.He sent to Hell every green, growing thing,And he raved at the birds as they fly.His oaths were many, and his range was wide,He swore in fancy ways;But his meaning was plain: that no created thingWas other than a hurt to his gaze.He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill,And windows toward the hill there were none,And on the other side they were white-washed thick,To keep out every spark of the sun.When he went to market he walked all the wayBlaspheming at the path he trod.He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to,By all the names he knew of God.For his heart was soured in his weary old hide,And his hopes had curdled in his breast.His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him overFor the chinking money-bags she liked best.The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin,The deer had trampled on his corn,His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought,And his sheep had died unshorn.His hens wouldn't lay, and his cow broke loose,And his old horse perished of a colic.In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holesBy little, glutton mice on a frolic.So he slowly lost all he ever had,And the blood in his body dried.Shrunken and mean he still lived on,And cursed that future which had lied.One day he was digging, a spade or two,As his aching back could lift,When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench,And to get it out he made great shift.So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain,And the veins in his forehead stood taut.At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked,He gathered up what he had sought.A dim old vase of crusted glass,Prismed while it lay buried deep.Shifting reds and greens, like a pigeon's neck,At the touch of the sun began to leap.It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light;Flashing like an opal-stone,Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran,Where at first there had seemed to be none.It had handles on each side to bear it up,And a belly for the gurgling wine.Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide,And its lip was curled and fine.The old man saw it in the sun's bright stareAnd the colours started up through the crust,And he who had cursed at the yellow sunHeld the flask to it and wiped away the dust.And he bore the flask to the brightest spot,Where the shadow of the hill fell clear;And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask,And the sun shone without his sneer.Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf,But it was only grey in the gloom.So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth,And he went outside with a broom.And he washed his windows just to let the sunLie upon his new-found vase;And when evening came, he moved it downAnd put it on a table near the placeWhere a candle fluttered in a draught from the door.The old man forgot to swear,Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size,Dancing in the kitchen there.He forgot to revile the sun next morningWhen he found his vase afire in its light.And he carried it out of the house that day,And kept it close beside him until night.And so it happened from day to day.The old man fed his lifeOn the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape.And his soul forgot its former strife.And the village-folk came and begged to seeThe flagon which was dug from the ground.And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joyAt showing what he had found.One day the master of the village schoolPassed him as he stooped at toil,Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his sideWas the vase, on the turned-up soil."My friend," said the schoolmaster, pompous and kind,"That's a valuable thing you have there,But it might get broken out of doors,It should meet with the utmost care.What are you doing with it out here?""Why, Sir," said the poor old man,"I like to have it about, do you see?To be with it all I can.""You will smash it," said the schoolmaster, sternly right,"Mark my words and see!"And he walked away, while the old man lookedAt his treasure despondingly.Then he smiled to himself, for it was his!He had toiled for it, and now he cared.Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues,Which his own hard work had bared.He would carry it round with him everywhere,As it gave him joy to do.A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row!Who would dare to say so? Who?Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way,And he bent to his hoe again....A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back,And he lurched with a cry of pain.For the blade of the hoe crashed into glass,And the vase fell to iridescent sherds.The old man's body heaved with slow, dry sobs.He did not curse, he had no words.He gathered the fragments, one by one,And his fingers were cut and torn.Then he made a hole in the very placeWhence the beautiful vase had been borne.He covered the hole, and he patted it down,Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door.He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windowsThat no beam of light should cross the floor.He sat down in front of the empty hearth,And he neither ate nor drank.In three days they found him, dead and cold,And they said: "What a queer old crank!"
Have at you, you Devils!My back's to this tree,For you're nothing so niceThat the hind-side of meWould escape your assault.Come on now, all three!Here's a dandified gentleman,Rapier at point,And a wrist which whirls roundLike a circular joint.A spatter of blood, man!That's just to anointAnd make supple your limbs.'Tis a pity the silkOf your waistcoat is stained.Why! Your heart's full of milk,And so full, it spills over!I'm not of your ilk.You said so, and laughedAt my old-fashioned hose,At the cut of my hair,At the length of my nose.To carve it to patternI think you propose.Your pardon, young Sir,But my nose and my swordAre proving themselvesIn quite perfect accord.I grieve to have spottedYour shirt. On my word!And hullo! You Bully!That blade's not a stickTo slash right and left,And my skull is too thickTo be cleft with such cuffsOf a sword. Now a lickDown the side of your face.What a pretty, red line!Tell the taverns that scarWas an honour. Don't whineThat a stranger has marked you.
. . . . .
The tree's there, You Swine!Did you think to get inAt the back, while your friendsMade a little diversionIn front? So it ends,With your sword clattering downOn the ground. 'Tis amendsI make for your courteousReception of me,A foreigner, landedFrom over the sea.Your welcome was ferventI think you'll agree.My shoes are not buckledWith gold, nor my hairOiled and scented, my jacket'sNot satin, I wearCorded breeches, wide hats,And I make people stare!So I do, but my heartIs the heart of a man,And my thoughts cannot twirlIn the limited span'Twixt my head and my heels,As some other men's can.I have business more strangeThan the shape of my boots,And my interests rangeFrom the sky, to the rootsOf this dung-hill you live in,You half-rotted shootsOf a mouldering tree!Here's at you, once more.You Apes! You Jack-fools!You can show me the door,And jeer at my ways,But you're pinked to the core.And before I have done,I will prick my name inWith the front of my steel,And your lily-white skinShall be printed with me.For I've come here to win!
My cup is empty to-night,Cold and dry are its sides,Chilled by the wind from the open window.Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight.The room is filled with the strange scentOf wistaria blossoms.They sway in the moon's radianceAnd tap against the wall.But the cup of my heart is still,And cold, and empty.When you come, it brimsRed and trembling with blood,Heart's blood for your drinking;To fill your mouth with loveAnd the bitter-sweet taste of a soul.
See! I give myself to you, Beloved!My words are little jarsFor you to take and put upon a shelf.Their shapes are quaint and beautiful,And they have many pleasant colours and lustresTo recommend them.Also the scent from them fills the roomWith sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses.When I shall have given you the last one,You will have the whole of me,But I shall be dead.
You glow in my heartLike the flames of uncounted candles.But when I go to warm my hands,My clumsiness overturns the light,And then I stumbleAgainst the tables and chairs.
Outside the long window,With his head on the stone sill,The dog is lying,Gazing at his Beloved.His eyes are wet and urgent,And his body is taut and shaking.It is cold on the terrace;A pale wind licks along the stone slabs,But the dog gazes through the glassAnd is content.The Beloved is writing a letter.Occasionally she speaks to the dog,But she is thinking of her writing.Does she, too, give her devotion to oneNot worthy?
I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade,So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by,So sharp that the air would turn its edgeWere it to be twisted in flight.Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it,And the mark of them lies, in and out,Worm-like,With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel.My brain is curved like a scimitar,And sighs at its cuttingLike a sickle mowing grass.But of what use is all this to me!I, who am set to crack stonesIn a country lane!
My heart is like a cleft pomegranateBleeding crimson seedsAnd dripping them on the ground.My heart gapes because it is ripe and over-full,And its seeds are bursting from it.But how is this other than a torment to me!I, who am shut up, with broken crockery,In a dark closet!
I have been temperate always,But I am like to be very drunkWith your coming.There have been timesI feared to walk down the streetLest I should reel with the wine of you,And jerk against my neighboursAs they go by.I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth,But my brain is noisyWith the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups.
I will mix me a drink of stars,—Large stars with polychrome needles,Small stars jetting maroon and crimson,Cool, quiet, green stars.I will tear them out of the sky,And squeeze them over an old silver cup,And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it,So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice.It will lap and scratchAs I swallow it down;And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire,Coiling and twisting in my belly.His snortings will rise to my head,And I shall be hot, and laugh,Forgetting that I have ever known a woman.
The rain gullies the garden pathsAnd tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.Even so, I can see that it has red berries,A scarlet fruit,Filmed over with moisture.It seems as though the rain,Dripping from it,Should be tinged with colour.I desire the berries,But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.Probably, too, they are bitter.
Hold your apron wideThat I may pour my gifts into it,So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder themFrom falling to the ground.I would pour them upon youAnd cover you,For greatly do I feel this needOf giving you something,Even these poor things.Dearest of my Heart!
When I go away from youThe world beats deadLike a slackened drum.I call out for you against the jutted starsAnd shout into the ridges of the wind.Streets coming fast,One after the other,Wedge you away from me,And the lamps of the city prick my eyesSo that I can no longer see your face.Why should I leave you,To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?
Hold your soul open for my welcoming.Let the quiet of your spirit bathe meWith its clear and rippled coolness,That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest,Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory.Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me,That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire,The life and joy of tongues of flame,And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune,I may rouse the blear-eyed world,And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten.
Between us leapt a gold and scarlet flame.Into the hollow of the cupped, arched blueOf Heaven it rose. Its flickering tongues up-drewAnd vanished in the sunshine. How it cameWe guessed not, nor what thing could be its name.From each to each had sprung those sparks which flewTogether into fire. But we knewThe winds would slap and quench it in their game.And so we graved and fashioned marble blocksTo treasure it, and placed them round about.With pillared porticos we wreathed the whole,And roofed it with bright bronze. Behind carved locksFlowered the tall and sheltered flame. Without,The baffled winds thrust at a column's bole.
Beneath this sod lie the remainsOf one who died of growing pains.
You ask me for a sonnet. Ah, my Dear,Can clocks tick back to yesterday at noon?Can cracked and fallen leaves recall last JuneAnd leap up on the boughs, now stiff and sere?For your sake, I would go and seek the year,Faded beyond the purple ranks of dune,Blown sands of drifted hours, which the moonStreaks with a ghostly finger, and her sneerPulls at my lengthening shadow. Yes, 'tis that!My shadow stretches forward, and the groundIs dark in front because the light's behind.It is grotesque, with such a funny hat,In watching it and walking I have foundMore than enough to occupy my mind.I cannot turn, the light would make me blind.
1A yellow band of light upon the streetPours from an open door, and makes a widePathway of bright gold across a sheetOf calm and liquid moonshine. From insideCome shouts and streams of laughter, and a snatchOf song, soon drowned and lost again in mirth,The clip of tankards on a table top,And stir of booted heels. Against the patchOf candle-light a shadow falls, its girthProclaims the host himself, and master of his shop.
2This is the tavern of one Hilverdink,Jan Hilverdink, whose wines are much esteemed.Within his cellar men can have to drinkThe rarest cordials old monks ever schemedTo coax from pulpy grapes, and with nice artImprove and spice their virgin juiciness.Here froths the amber beer of many a brew,Crowning each pewter tankard with as smartA cap as ever in his wantonnessWinter set glittering on top of an old yew.
3Tall candles stand upon the table, whereAre twisted glasses, ruby-sparked with wine,Clarets and ports. Those topaz bumpers wereDrained from slim, long-necked bottles of the Rhine.The centre of the board is piled with pipes,Slender and clean, the still unbaptized clayAwaits its burning fate. Behind, the vaultStretches from dim to dark, a groping wayBordered by casks and puncheons, whose brass stripesAnd bands gleam dully still, beyond the gay tumult.
4"For good old Master Hilverdink, a toast!"Clamoured a youth with tassels on his boots."Bring out your oldest brandy for a boast,From that small barrel in the very rootsOf your deep cellar, man. Why here is Max!Ho! Welcome, Max, you're scarcely here in time.We want to drink to old Jan's luck, and smokeHis best tobacco for a grand climax.Here, Jan, a paper, fragrant as crushed thyme,We'll have the best to wish you luck, or may we choke!"
5Max 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 vatLost in the distance of his cellar, ran.Max took a pipe as graceful as the stemOf some long tulip, crammed it full, and drewThe pungent smoke deep to his grateful lung.It curled all blue throughout the cave and flewInto the silver night. At once there flungInto the crowded shop a boy, who cried to them:
6"Oh, sirs, is there some learned lawyer here,Some advocate, or all-wise counsellor?My master sent me to inquire whereSuch men do mostly be, but every doorWas shut and barred, for late has grown the hour.I pray you tell me where I may now findOne versed in law, the matter will not wait.""I am a lawyer, boy," said Max, "my mindIs not locked to my business, though 'tis late.I shall be glad to serve what way is in my power.