Kirjoittaja: 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 is bitter -- bitter," he answered; 
"But I like it 
Because it is bitter, 
And because it is my heart."

*****

A man said to the universe: 
"Sir I exist!" 
"However," replied the universe, 
"The fact has not created in me 
A sense of obligation."

*****

The ocean said to me once, 
"Look! 
Yonder on the shore 
Is a woman, weeping. 
I have watched her. 
Go you and tell her this -- 
Her lover I have laid 
In cool green hall. 
There is wealth of golden sand 
And pillars, coral-red; 
Two white fish stand guard at his bier. 

"Tell her this 
And more -- 
That the king of the seas 
Weeps too, old, helpless man. 
The bustling fates 
Heap his hands with corpses 
Until he stands like a child 
With a surplus of toys."

*****

Ay, workman, make me a dream, 
A dream for my love. 
Cunningly weave sunlight, 
Breezes, and flowers. 
Let it be of the cloth of meadows. 
And -- good workman -- 
And let there be a man walking thereon.

*****

Tradition, thou art for suckling children, 
Thou art the enlivening milk for babes; 
But no meat for men is in thee. 
Then -- 
But, alas, we all are babes.

*****

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.

*****

There was a man and a woman 
Who sinned. 
Then did the man heap the punishment 
All upon the head of her, 
And went away gaily. 

There was a man and a woman 
Who sinned. 
And the man stood with her. 
As upon her head, so upon his, 
Fell blow and blow, 
And all people screaming, "Fool!" 
He was a brave heart. 

He was a brave heart. 
Would you speak with him, friend? 
Well, he is dead, 
And there went your opportunity. 
Let it be your grief 
That he is dead 
And your opportunity gone; 
For, in that, you were a coward.

****

To the maiden 
The sea was blue meadow, 
Alive with little froth-people 
Singing. 

To the sailor, wrecked, 
The sea was dead grey walls 
Superlative in vacancy, 
Upon which nevertheless at fateful time 
Was written 
The grim hatred of nature.

*****

The wayfarer, 
Perceiving the pathway to truth, 
Was struck with astonishment. 
It was thickly grown with weeds. 
"Ha," he said, 
"I see that none has passed here 
In a long time." 
Later he saw that each weed 
Was a singular knife. 
"Well," he mumbled at last, 
"Doubtless there are other roads."

*****

When the prophet, a complacent fat man, 
Arrived at the mountain-top, 
He cried: "Woe to my knowledge! 
I intended to see good white lands 
And bad black lands, 
But the scene is grey."

*****

A man builded a bugle for the storms to blow. 
The focused winds hurled him afar. 
He said that the instrument was a failure.

*****

When the suicide arrived at the sky, the people there asked him: "Why?" 
He replied: "Because no one admired me."