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. Why do you strive for greatness, fool?
2. Once a man clambering to the housetops
3. In heaven
4. Mystic shadow, bending near me
5. Two or three angels

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