Poem by Stephen Crane

* * *

Tradition, thou art for suckling children,
Thou art the enlivening milk for babes;
But no meat for men is in thee.
Then --
But, alas, we all are babes.

1. Once a man clambering to the housetops
2. On the horizon the peaks assembled
3. You tell me this is God?
4. I explain the silvered passing of a ship at night
5. In the night

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