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. Many red devils ran from my heart
2. I stood upon a highway
3. There was set before me a mighty hill
4. Friend, your white beard sweeps the ground
5. A slant of sun on dull brown walls

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