Poem by Stephen Crane

* * *

The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top

Blood -- blood and torn grass --
Had marked the rise of his agony --
This lone hunter.
The grey-green woods impassive
Had watched the threshing of his limbs.

A canoe with flashing paddle,
A girl with soft searching eyes,
A call: ”John!”
.    .    .    .    .
Come, arise, hunter!
Can you not hear?

The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top.

1. Many red devils ran from my heart
2. Friend, your white beard sweeps the ground
3. A slant of sun on dull brown walls
4. I explain the silvered passing of a ship at night
5. And you love me

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