Poem by Stephen Crane

* * *

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. There was a man and a woman
3. A man toiled on a burning road
4. Tell brave deeds of war
5. A spirit sped

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