by: Stephen Crane
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It it bitter — bitter," he answered,
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."
by: Stephen Crane
A god in wrath
Was beating a man;
He cuffed him loudly
With thunderous blows
That rand and rolled over the earth.
All people came running.
The man screamed and struggled,
And bit madly at the feet of the god.
The people cried,
"Ah, what a wicked man!"
And —
"Ah, what a redoubtable god!"
by: Stephen Crane
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?
by: Stephen Crane
Many workmen
Built a huge ball of masonry
Upon a mountaintop.
Then they went to the valley below,
And turned to behold their work.
"It is grand," they said;
They loved the thing.
Of a sudden, it moved.
It came upon them swiftly;
It crushed them all to blood.
But some had opportunity to squeal.
by: Stephen Crane
I walked in a desert,
And I cried,
"Ah, God, take me from this place!"
A voice sais, "It is no desert."
I cried, "Well, but —
The sand, the heat, the vacant horizon."
A voice said, "It is no desert."
by: Stephen Crane
Many red devils ran from my heart
And out upon the page.
They were so tiny
The pen could mash them.
And many struggled in the ink.
It was strange
To write in this red muck
Of things from my heart.