Poem by Stephen Crane

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Friend, your white beard sweeps the ground.
Why do you stand, expectant?
Do you hope to see it
In one of your withered days?
With your old eyes
Do you hope to see
The triumphal march of justice?
Do not wait, friend!
Take your white beard
And your old eyes
To more tender lands.

1. Many red devils ran from my heart
2. A little ink more or less!
3. There was set before me a mighty hill
4. A slant of sun on dull brown walls
5. I explain the silvered passing of a ship at night

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