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. Why do you strive for greatness, fool?
2. Mystic shadow, bending near me
3. Two or three angels
4. Once, I knew a fine song
5. There were many who went in huddled procession

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