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Best Famous Stephen Crane Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Stephen Crane poems. This is a select list of the best famous Stephen Crane poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Stephen Crane poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Stephen Crane poems.

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by John Berryman | |

Dream Song 78: Op. posth. no. 1

 Darkened his eye, his wild smile disappeared,
inapprehensible his studies grew,
nourished he less & less
his subject body with good food & rest,
something bizarre about Henry, slowly sheared
off, unlike you & you,

smaller & smaller, till in question stood
his eyeteeth and one block of memories
These were enough for him
implying commands from upstairs & from down,
Walt's 'orbic flex,' triads of Hegel would
incorporate, if you please,

into the know-how of the American bard
embarrassed Henry heard himself a-being,
and the younger Stephen Crane
of a powerful memory, of pain,
these stood the ancestors, relaxed & hard,
whilst Henry's parts were fleeing.


by Stephen Crane | |

I stood upon a highway

 I stood upon a highway,
And, behold, there came
Many strange peddlers.
To me each one made gestures, Holding forth little images, saying, "This is my pattern of God.
Now this is the God I prefer.
" But I said, "Hence! Leave me with mine own, And take you yours away; I can't buy of your patterns of God, The little gods you may rightly prefer.
"


by Stephen Crane | |

A man toiled on a burning road

 A man toiled on a burning road,
Never resting.
Once he saw a fat, stupid ass Grinning at him from a green place.
The man cried out in rage, "Ah! Do not deride me, fool! I know you -- All day stuffing your belly, Burying your heart In grass and tender sprouts: It will not suffice you.
" But the ass only grinned at him from the green place.


by Stephen Crane | |

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

 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.


by Stephen Crane | |

Once a man clambering to the housetops

 Once a man clambering to the housetops
Appealed to the heavens.
With strong voice he called to the deaf spheres; A warrior's shout he raised to the suns.
Lo, at last, there was a dot on the clouds, And -- at last and at last -- -- God -- the sky was filled with armies.


by Stephen Crane | |

Supposing that I should have the courage

 Supposing that I should have the courage
To let a red sword of virtue
Plunge into my heart,
Letting to the weeds of the ground
My sinful blood,
What can you offer me?
A gardened castle?
A flowery kingdom?

What? A hope?
Then hence with your red sword of virtue.


by Stephen Crane | |

The wayfarer

 The wayfarer,
Perceiving the pathway to truth,
Was struck with astonishment.
It was thickly grown with weeds.
"Ha," he said, "I see that none has passed here In a long time.
" Later he saw that each weed Was a singular knife.
"Well," he mumbled at last, "Doubtless there are other roads.
"


by Stephen Crane | |

Two or three angels

 Two or three angels
Came near to the earth.
They saw a fat church.
Little black streams of people Came and went in continually.
And the angels were puzzled To know why the people went thus, And why they stayed so long within.


by Stephen Crane | |

Tell brave deeds of war.

 "Tell brave deeds of war.
" Then they recounted tales, -- "There were stern stands And bitter runs for glory.
" Ah, I think there were braver deeds.


by Stephen Crane | |

In the desert

 In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: "Is it good, friend?" "It is bitter - bitter," he answered; "But I like it Because it is bitter, And because it is my heart.
"


by Stephen Crane | |

Blustering God

 i

Blustering God,
Stamping across the sky
With loud swagger,
I fear You not.
No, though from Your highest heaven You plunge Your spear at my heart, I fear You not.
No, not if the blow Is as the lightning blasting a tree, I fear You not, puffing braggart.
ii If Thou canst see into my heart That I fear Thee not, Thou wilt see why I fear Thee not, And why it is right.
So threaten not, Thou, with Thy bloody spears, Else Thy sublime ears shall hear curses.
iii Withal, there is One whom I fear: I fear to see grief upon that face.
Perchance, friend, He is not your God; If so, spit upon Him.
By it you will do no profanity.
But I -- Ah, sooner would I die Than see tears in those eyes of my soul.


by Stephen Crane | |

There were many who went in huddled procession

 There were many who went in huddled procession,
They knew not whither;
But, at any rate, success or calamity
Would attend all in equality.
There was one who sought a new road.
He went into direful thickets, And ultimately he died thus, alone; But they said he had courage.


by Stephen Crane | |

To the maiden

 To the maiden
The sea was blue meadow,
Alive with little froth-people
Singing.
To the sailor, wrecked, The sea was dead grey walls Superlative in vacancy, Upon which nevertheless at fateful time Was written The grim hatred of nature.


by Stephen Crane | |

The successful man has thrust himself

 The successful man has thrust himself
Through the water of the years,
Reeking wet with mistakes --
Bloody mistakes;
Slimed with victories over the lesser,
A figure thankful on the shore of money.
Then, with the bones of fools He buys silken banners Limned with his triumphant face; With the skins of wise men He buys the trivial bows of all.
Flesh painted with marrow Contributes a coverlet, A coverlet for his contented slumber.
In guiltless ignorance, in ignorant guilt, He delivered his secrets to the riven multitude.
"Thus I defended: Thus I wrought.
" Complacent, smiling, He stands heavily on the dead.
Erect on a pillar of skulls He declaims his trampling of babes; Smirking, fat, dripping, He makes speech in guiltless ignorance, Innocence.


by Stephen Crane | |

The impact of a dollar upon the heart

 The impact of a dollar upon the heart
Smiles warm red light,
Sweeping from the hearth rosily upon the white table,
With the hanging cool velvet shadows
Moving softly upon the door.
The impact of a million dollars Is a crash of flunkeys, And yawning emblems of Persia Cheeked against oak, France and a sabre, The outcry of old beauty Whored by pimping merchants To submission before wine and chatter.
Silly rich peasants stamp the carpets of men, Dead men who dreamed fragrance and light Into their woof, their lives; The rug of an honest bear Under the feet of a cryptic slave Who speaks always of baubles, Forgetting state, multitude, work, and state, Champing and mouthing of hats, Making ratful squeak of hats, Hats.


by Stephen Crane | |

Ay workman make me a dream

 Ay, workman, make me a dream,
A dream for my love.
Cunningly weave sunlight, Breezes, and flowers.
Let it be of the cloth of meadows.
And -- good workman -- And let there be a man walking thereon.


by Stephen Crane | |

Each small gleam was a voice

 Each small gleam was a voice,
A lantern voice --
In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
A chorus of colours came over the water; The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered, No pines crooned on the hills, The blue night was elsewhere a silence, When the chorus of colours came over the water, Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
Small glowing pebbles Thrown on the dark plane of evening Sing good ballads of God And eternity, with soul's rest.
Little priests, little holy fathers, None can doubt the truth of your hymning, When the marvellous chorus comes over the water, Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.


by Stephen Crane | |

Tradition thou art for suckling children

 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.


by Stephen Crane | |

A newspaper is a collection of half-injustices

 A newspaper is a collection of half-injustices
Which, bawled by boys from mile to mile,
Spreads its curious opinion
To a million merciful and sneering men,
While families cuddle the joys of the fireside
When spurred by tale of dire lone agony.
A newspaper is a court Where every one is kindly and unfairly tried By a squalor of honest men.
A newspaper is a market Where wisdom sells its freedom And melons are crowned by the crowd.
A newspaper is a game Where his error scores the player victory While another's skill wins death.
A newspaper is a symbol; It is feckless life's chronicle, A collection of loud tales Concentrating eternal stupidities, That in remote ages lived unhaltered, Roaming through a fenceless world.


by Stephen Crane | |

A slant of sun on dull brown walls

 A slant of sun on dull brown walls,
A forgotten sky of bashful blue.
Toward God a mighty hymn, A song of collisions and cries, Rumbling wheels, hoof-beats, bells, Welcomes, farewells, love-calls, final moans, Voices of joy, idiocy, warning, despair, The unknown appeals of brutes, The chanting of flowers, The screams of cut trees, The senseless babble of hens and wise men -- A cluttered incoherency that says at the stars: "O God, save us!"