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Poem by Stephen Crane


* * *


And you love me

I love you.

You are, then, cold coward.

Aye; but, beloved,
When I strive to come to you,
Man's opinions, a thousand thickets,
My interwoven existence,
My life,
Caught in the stubble of the world
Like a tender veil --
This stays me.
No strange move can I make
Without noise of tearing
I dare not.

If love loves,
There is no world
Nor word.
All is lost
Save thought of love
And place to dream.
You love me?

I love you.

You are, then, cold coward.

Aye; but, beloved -- 



Stephen Crane


Stephen Crane's other poems:
  1. Tradition, thou art for suckling children
  2. I saw a man pursuing the horizon
  3. In heaven
  4. Mystic shadow, bending near me
  5. There was crimson clash of war


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