Poem by Stephen Crane

* * *

To the maiden
The sea was blue meadow,
Alive with little froth-people
Singing.

To the sailor, wrecked,
The sea was dead grey walls
Superlative in vacancy,
Upon which nevertheless at fateful time
Was written
The grim hatred of nature.

1. If I should cast off this tattered coat
2. Two or three angels
3. The successful man has thrust himself
4. Ay, workman, make me a dream
5. I walked in a desert

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