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. Many red devils ran from my heart
2. Friend, your white beard sweeps the ground
3. A slant of sun on dull brown walls
4. I explain the silvered passing of a ship at night
5. And you love me

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