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Poem by Stephen Crane


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A spirit sped
Through spaces of night;
And as he sped, he called,
”God! God!”
He went through valleys
Of black death-slime,
Ever calling,
”God! God!”
Their echoes
From crevice and cavern
Mocked him:
”God! God! God!”
Fleetly into the plains of space
He went, ever calling,
”God! God!”
Eventually, then, he screamed,
Mad in denial,
”Ah, there is no God!”
A swift hand,
A sword from the sky,
Smote him,
And he was dead.



Stephen Crane


Stephen Crane's other poems:
  1. If I should cast off this tattered coat
  2. Ay, workman, make me a dream
  3. A god in wrath
  4. Friend, your white beard sweeps the ground
  5. Two or three angels


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