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. If I should cast off this tattered coat
2. Ay, workman, make me a dream
3. A god in wrath
4. Two or three angels
5. If there is a witness to my little life

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