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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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Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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.

More great poems below...

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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.

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 | |

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.

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written by Stephen Crane | |

Blustering God


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.

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 | |

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 | |

To the maiden

 To the maiden
The sea was blue meadow,
Alive with little froth-people
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 | |

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.