Poem by Stephen Crane

* * *

Yes, I have a thousand tongues,
And nine and ninety-nine lie.
Though I strive to use the one,
It will make no melody at my will,
But is dead in my mouth.

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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