A fragment of Amsterdam's harbor, upon a bench.
The waterscape, a strand and a frigate.
Blocks of ice gliding to the Ocean Maternal,
From the once forlorn Zuyder Zee inlet,
Into the merchandised North Sea Canal.
The ice and wind is whistling a great play!
A bench whereupon I sit is of modern make,
But the tree from which it is take, nay!
He maybe from a Polder-Dike heard the srape,
That dug the earth and crippled the Zee.
And he shivered alright, and his heart cried.
Soon hacked he would be, t'was man's decree.
And so he lives on, but all up tied
With nuts and bolts like the frigate,
Lost upon the port, reflects the ice cold Jacket-Strait.
--
Not Shakespearean rhyme scheme and meter. Don't remember. Got to look it up.
Also too much poetic license used but what the heck! It's printed for you to see.
