In 1881 he went to Brussels to practice, but he was not a success as a lawyer. Here he met artists and authors, and like many poets became eccentric in his dress. "Les Flamandes" is the name of his first book. When it was published his conservative parents were scandalized and the critics were very severe, but all had to admit the primitive vitality and savage strength of his work. "Les Moines" is his second book. These sonnets describe the monks and are unlike his other poems. As Verhaeren was unbridled in his studies as well as his follies, he had a severe nervous breakdown. While convalescing he wrote "Les Soirs, Les Débâcles, Les Flambeaux Noirs," which are extraordinary descriptions of his physical and mental sensations during his illness. After he recovered he married and traveled in Europe and in England. Then for a time he gave lectures at the Université Libre in Brussels. "Les Villes Tentaculaires," which describes the monster city, is called magnificent. "Les Aubes" and the "Campagnes Hallucinées" were published at the same time, and "La Foule" and "Vers la Mer" in the book entitled "Les Visages de la Vie" are also fine. Among Verhaeren's plays, "Le Cloître" is taken from his book of poems, called "Les Moines." It is peculiar in having no woman in the cast, but it was well given and proved successful. "Les Aubes" and "Hélène de Sparte" were others of his plays. The three following poems by this author are marvelous pieces of description and thoroughly characteristic of Belgium: A CORNER OF THE QUAY "When the wind sulks, and the dune dries, The old salts with uneasy eyes Hour after hour peer at the skies. "All are silent; their hands turning, A brown juice from their lips they wipe; Never a sound save, in their pipe, The dry tobacco burning. "That storm the almanac announces, Where is it? They are puzzled. The sea has smoothed her flounces. Winter is muzzled. "The cute ones shake their pate, And cross their arms, and puff, But mate by mate they wait, And think the squall is late, But coming sure enough. "With fingers slow, sedate, Their finished pipe they fill; Pursuing, every salt, Without a minute's halt, The same idea still. "A boat sails up the bay, As tranquil as the day; Its keel a long net trails, Covered with glittering scales. "Out come the men: What ho? When will the tempest come? With pipe in mouth, still dumb? With bare foot on sabot, The salts wait in a row. "Here they lounge about, Where all year long the stout Fishers' dames Sell, from their wooden frames, Herrings and anchovies, And by each stall a stove is, To warm them with its flames. "Here they spit together, Spying out the weather. Here they yawn and doze; Backs bent with many a squall, Rubbing it in rows, Grease the wall.