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. A man toiled on a burning road
2. Upon the road of my life
3. The successful man has thrust himself
4. Mystic shadow, bending near me
5. If I should cast off this tattered coat

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