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. With eye and with gesture
2. Two or three angels
3. The successful man has thrust himself
4. Blustering God
5. A man toiled on a burning road

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