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Poem by Stephen Crane


* * *


The trees in the garden rained flowers.
Children ran there joyously.
They gathered the flowers
Each to himself.
Now there were some
Who gathered great heaps --
Having opportunity and skill --
Until, behold, only chance blossoms
Remained for the feeble.
Then a little spindling tutor
Ran importantly to the father, crying:
Pray, come hither!
See this unjust thing in your garden!
But when the father had surveyed,
He admonished the tutor:
Not so, small sage!
This thing is just.
For, look you,
Are not they who possess the flowers
Stronger, bolder, shrewder
Than they who have none?
Why should the strong --
The beautiful strong --
Why should they not have the flowers?
Upon reflection, the tutor bowed to the ground,
My lord, he said,
The stars are displaced
By this towering wisdom.



Stephen Crane


Stephen Crane's other poems:
  1. Tradition, thou art for suckling children
  2. I saw a man pursuing the horizon
  3. God fashioned the ship of the world carefully
  4. In heaven
  5. Mystic shadow, bending near me


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