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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. Why do you strive for greatness, fool?
  2. The impact of a dollar upon the heart
  3. Once a man clambering to the housetops
  4. In heaven
  5. Mystic shadow, bending near me


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