Poem by Stephen Crane

* * *

I stood upon a highway,
And, behold, there came
Many strange peddlers.
To me each one made gestures,
Holding forth little images, saying,
”This is my pattern of God.
Now this is the God I prefer.”

But I said, ”Hence!
Leave me with mine own,
And take you yours away;
I can’t buy of your patterns of God,
The little gods you may rightly prefer.”

1. The successful man has thrust himself
2. With eye and with gesture
3. On the horizon the peaks assembled
4. Two or three angels
5. If there is a witness to my little life

Print

1386 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version