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.

1. A spirit sped
2. On the horizon the peaks assembled
3. "Think as I think," said a man
4. Walking in the sky
5. Many workmen

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