Poem 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.

1. Friend, your white beard sweeps the ground
2. A slant of sun on dull brown walls
3. And you love me
4. Tell brave deeds of war
5. I walked in a desert

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