Stephen Crane

I stood musing in a black world | Poem by Stephen Crane

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I stood musing in a black world,
Not knowing where to direct my feet.

And I saw the quick stream of men
Pouring ceaselessly,
Filled with eager faces,
A torrent of desire.

I called to them,
“Where do you go? What do you see?”
A thousand voices called to me.

A thousand fingers pointed.

“Look! look! There!”

I know not of it.

But, lo! In the far sky shone a radiance
Ineffable, divine —
A vision painted upon a pall;
And sometimes it was,
And sometimes it was not.

I hesitated.

Then from the stream
Came roaring voices,
Impatient:
“Look! look! There!”

So again I saw,
And leaped, unhesitant,
And struggled and fumed
With outspread clutching fingers.

The hard hills tore my flesh;
The ways bit my feet.

At last I looked again.

No radiance in the far sky,
Ineffable, divine;
No vision painted upon a pall;
And always my eyes ached for the light.

Then I cried in despair,
“I see nothing! Oh, where do I go?”
The torrent turned again its faces:
“Look! look! There!”

And at the blindness of my spirit
They screamed,
“Fool! fool! fool!”

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In heaven | Poem by Stephen Crane

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In heaven,
Some little blades of grass
Stood before God.

“What did you do?”
Then all save one of the little blades
Began eagerly to relate
The merits of their lives.

This one stayed a small way behind,
Ashamed.

Presently, God said,
“And what did you do?”
The little blade answered, “Oh my Lord,
Memory is bitter to me,
For, if I did good deeds,
I know not of them.
“
Then God, in all His splendor,
Arose from His throne.

“Oh, best little blade of grass!” He said.

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Behold the grave of a wicked man | Poem by Stephen Crane

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Behold, the grave of a wicked man,
And near it, a stern spirit.

There came a drooping maid with violets,
But the spirit grasped her arm.

“No flowers for him,” he said.

The maid wept:
“Ah, I loved him.
“
But the spirit, grim and frowning:
“No flowers for him.
“

Now, this is it —
If the spirit was just,
Why did the maid weep?

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I saw a man pursuing the horizon | Poem by Stephen Crane

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I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.

I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.

“It is futile,” I said,
“You can never -“

“You lie,” he cried,
And ran on.

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I looked here | Poem by Stephen Crane

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I looked here;
I looked there;
Nowhere could I see my love.

And — this time —
She was in my heart.

Truly, then, I have no complaint,
For though she be fair and fairer,
She is none so fair as she
In my heart.

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I met a seer | Poem by Stephen Crane

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I met a seer.

He held in his hands
The book of wisdom.

“Sir,” I addressed him,
“Let me read.
“
“Child — ” he began.

“Sir,” I said,
“Think not that I am a child,
For already I know much
Of that which you hold.

Aye, much.
“

He smiled.

Then he opened the book
And held it before me.
—
Strange that I should have grown so suddenly blind.

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Black riders came from the sea | Poem by Stephen Crane

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Black riders came from the sea.

There was clang and clang of spear and shield,
And clash and clash of hoof and heel,
Wild shouts and the wave of hair
In the rush upon the wind:
Thus the ride of sin.

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