From The Black Riders (1895)
II
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."
XIX
A god in wrath
Was beating a man;
He cuffed him loudly
With thunderous blows
That rang and rolled over the
earth.
All people came running.
The man screamed and
struggled,
And bit madly at the feet of
the god.
The people cried,
"Ah,
what a wicked man!"
And
"Ah, what a redoubtable god!"
XLII
I walked in a desert.
And I cried,
"Ah, God, take me from
this place!"
A voice said, "It is no
desert."
I cried, "Well, But-
The sand,
the heat, the vacant horizon."
A voice said, "It is no
desert."
LVI
A man feared that he might
find an assassin;
Another
that he might find a victim.
One was more
wise than the other.
From War is Kind
I
Do not weep, maiden, for war
is kind.
Because your lover threw wild
hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran
on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the
regiment,
Little souls who thirst for
fight,
These men were born to drill
and die.
The unexplained glory flies
above them,
Great is the battle-god,
great, and his kingdom --
A field
where a thousand corpses lie.
Do not weep, babe, for war is
kind.
Because your father tumbled
in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped
and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Swift blazing flag of the
regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and
gold,
These men were born to drill
and die.
Point for them the virtue of
slaughter,
Make plain to them the
excellence of killing
And a field
where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung
humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud
of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
III
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.
XVI
There was a man with tongue
of wood
Who essayed to sing,
And in truth it was
lamentable.
But there was one who heard
The clip-clapper of this
tongue of wood
And knew what the man
Wished to sing,
And with that the singer was
content.
XXI
A man said to the universe:
"Sir I exist!"
"However," replied
the universe,
"The fact has not
created in me
A sense of
obligation."
“Lines”
Published in The Philistine (June 1898); see the
original publication at http://www.wsu.edu/~campbelld/crane/pics4.html
When a people reach the top
of a hill,
Then does God lean toward
them,
Shortens tongues and
lengthens arms.
A vision of their dead comes
to the weak.
The moon shall not be too old
Before the new battalions
rise,
Blue
battalions.
The moon shall not be too old
When the children of change
shall fall
Before the new battalions,
The blue
battalions.
Mistakes and virtues will be
trampled deep.
A church and a thief shall
fall together.
A sword will come at the
bidding of the eyeless,
The God-led, turning only to
beckon,
Swinging a creed like a
censer
At the head of the new
battalions,
Blue
battalions.
March the tools of nature's
impulse,
Men born of wrong, men born
of right,
Men of the new battalions,
The blue
battalions.
The clang of swords is Thy
wisdom,
The wounded make gestures
like Thy Son's;
The feet of mad horses is one
part --
Ay, another is the hand of a
mother on the brow of a youth.
Then, swift as they charge
through a shadow,
The men of the new
battalions,
Blue battalions --
God lead them high, God lead
them far,
God lead them far, God lead
them high,
These new battalions,
The blue
battalions.
“A man adrift on a slim spar”
First published by The Bookman in
1929.
A man adrift on a slim spar
A horizon smaller than the
rim of a bottle
Tented waves rearing lashy dark points
The near
whine of froth in circles.
God is cold.
The incessant raise and swing
of the sea
And growl after growl of
crest
The sinkings,
green, seething, endless
The
upheaval half-completed.
God is cold.
The seas are in the hollow of
The Hand;
Oceans may be turned to a
spray
Raining down through the
stars
Because of
a gesture of pity toward a babe.
Oceans may become grey ashes,
Die with a long moan and a
roar
Amid the tumult of the fishes
And the cries of the ships,
Because The
Hand beckons the mice.
A horizon smaller than a
doomed assassin’s cap,
Inky, surging tumults
A reeling, drunken sky and no
sky
A pale hand sliding from a
polished spar.
God is cold.
The puff of
a coat imprisoning air.
A face kissing the
water-death
A weary slow sway of a lost
hand
And the
sea, the moving sea, the sea.
God is cold.