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Poem by Stephen Crane


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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: ФJohn!Ф
.    .    .    .    .
Come, arise, hunter!
Can you not hear?

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



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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