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Poem by Stephen Crane


* * *


I met a seer.
He held in his hands
The book of wisdom.
Sir, I addressed him,
Let me read.
Child --  he began.
Sir, I said,
Think not that I am a child,
For already I know much
Of that which you hold.
Aye, much.

He smiled.
Then he opened the book
And held it before me. --
Strange that I should have grown so suddenly blind.



Stephen Crane


Stephen Crane's other poems:
  1. Why do you strive for greatness, fool?
  2. Once a man clambering to the housetops
  3. Mystic shadow, bending near me
  4. Two or three angels
  5. Once, I knew a fine song


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