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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.

Search for the best famous Stephen Crane poems, articles about Stephen Crane poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Stephen Crane poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

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Written by Stephen Crane |

I stood upon a high place

 I stood upon a high place,
And saw, below, many devils
Running, leaping,
and carousing in sin.
One looked up, grinning, And said, "Comrade! Brother!"

Written by Stephen Crane |

There was crimson clash of war.

 There was crimson clash of war.
Lands turned black and bare; Women wept; Babes ran, wondering.
There came one who understood not these things.
He said, "Why is this?" Whereupon a million strove to answer him.
There was such intricate clamour of tongues, That still the reason was not.

Written by Stephen Crane |

And you love me

 And you love me

I love you.
You are, then, cold coward.
Aye; but, beloved, When I strive to come to you, Man's opinions, a thousand thickets, My interwoven existence, My life, Caught in the stubble of the world Like a tender veil -- This stays me.
No strange move can I make Without noise of tearing I dare not.
If love loves, There is no world Nor word.
All is lost Save thought of love And place to dream.
You love me? I love you.
You are, then, cold coward.
Aye; but, beloved --

More great poems below...

Written by Stephen Crane |

A little ink more or less!

 A little ink more or less!
I surely can't matter?
Even the sky and the opulent sea,
The plains and the hills, aloof,
Hear the uproar of all these books.
But it is only a little ink more or less.
What? You define me God with these trinkets? Can my misery meal on an ordered walking Of surpliced numskulls? And a fanfare of lights? Or even upon the measured pulpitings Of the familiar false and true? Is this God? Where, then, is hell? Show me some bastard mushroom Sprung from a pollution of blood.
It is better.
Where is God?

Written 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.

Written by Stephen Crane |

On the desert

 On the desert
A silence from the moon's deepest valley.
Fire rays fall athwart the robes Of hooded men, squat and dumb.
Before them, a woman Moves to the blowing of shrill whistles And distant thunder of drums, While mystic things, sinuous, dull with terrible colour, Sleepily fondle her body Or move at her will, swishing stealthily over the sand.
The snakes whisper softly; The whispering, whispering snakes, Dreaming and swaying and staring, But always whispering, softly whispering.
The wind streams from the lone reaches Of Arabia, solemn with night, And the wild fire makes shimmer of blood Over the robes of the hooded men Squat and dumb.
Bands of moving bronze, emerald, yellow, Circle the throat and the arms of her, And over the sands serpents move warily Slow, menacing and submissive, Swinging to the whistles and drums, The whispering, whispering snakes, Dreaming and swaying and staring, But always whispering, softly whispering.
The dignity of the accursed; The glory of slavery, despair, death, Is in the dance of the whispering snakes.

Written by Stephen Crane |

A man said to the universe:

 A man said to the universe:
"Sir I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.
"

Written 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.

Written by Stephen Crane |

I stood musing in a black world

 I stood musing in a black world,
Not knowing where to direct my feet.
And I saw the quick stream of men Pouring ceaselessly, Filled with eager faces, A torrent of desire.
I called to them, "Where do you go? What do you see?" A thousand voices called to me.
A thousand fingers pointed.
"Look! look! There!" I know not of it.
But, lo! In the far sky shone a radiance Ineffable, divine -- A vision painted upon a pall; And sometimes it was, And sometimes it was not.
I hesitated.
Then from the stream Came roaring voices, Impatient: "Look! look! There!" So again I saw, And leaped, unhesitant, And struggled and fumed With outspread clutching fingers.
The hard hills tore my flesh; The ways bit my feet.
At last I looked again.
No radiance in the far sky, Ineffable, divine; No vision painted upon a pall; And always my eyes ached for the light.
Then I cried in despair, "I see nothing! Oh, where do I go?" The torrent turned again its faces: "Look! look! There!" And at the blindness of my spirit They screamed, "Fool! fool! fool!"

Written by Stephen Crane |

Fast rode the knight

 Fast rode the knight
With spurs, hot and reeking,
Ever waving an eager sword,
"To save my lady!"
Fast rode the knIght,
And leaped from saddle to war.
Men of steel flickered and gleamed Like riot of silver lights, And the gold of the knight's good banner Still waved on a castle wall.
.
.
.
.
.
A horse, Blowing, staggering, bloody thing, Forgotten at foot of castle wall.
A horse Dead at foot of castle wall.

Written by Stephen Crane |

A man went before a strange God

 A man went before a strange God --
The God of many men, sadly wise.
And the deity thundered loudly, Fat with rage, and puffing.
"Kneel, mortal, and cringe And grovel and do homage To My Particularly Sublime Majesty.
" The man fled.
Then the man went to another God -- The God of his inner thoughts.
And this one looked at him With soft eyes Lit with infinite comprehension, And said, "My poor child!"

Written 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.
"

Written by Stephen Crane |

I met a seer

 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.

Written by Stephen Crane |

The trees in the garden rained flowers.

 The trees in the garden rained flowers.
Children ran there joyously.
They gathered the flowers Each to himself.
Now there were some Who gathered great heaps -- Having opportunity and skill -- Until, behold, only chance blossoms Remained for the feeble.
Then a little spindling tutor Ran importantly to the father, crying: "Pray, come hither! See this unjust thing in your garden!" But when the father had surveyed, He admonished the tutor: "Not so, small sage! This thing is just.
For, look you, Are not they who possess the flowers Stronger, bolder, shrewder Than they who have none? Why should the strong -- The beautiful strong -- Why should they not have the flowers?" Upon reflection, the tutor bowed to the ground, "My lord," he said, "The stars are displaced By this towering wisdom.
"

Written by Stephen Crane |

You tell me this is God?

 You tell me this is God?
I tell you this is a printed list,
A burning candle, and an ass.