The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (220 page)

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

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 flunkys,
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.

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

When the prophet, a complacent fat
man,
Arrived at the mountain-top,
He cried: “Woe to my knowledge!
“I intended to see good white lands
“And bad black lands,
“But the scene is grey.”

There was a land where lived no
violets.
A traveller at once demanded: “Why?”
The people told him:
“Once the violets of this place spoke thus:
“‘Until some woman freely give her lover
“‘To another woman
“‘We will fight in bloody scuffle.’”
Sadly the people added:
“There are no violets here.”

There was one I met upon the road
Who looked at me with kind eyes.
He said: “Show me of your wares.”
And I did,
Holding forth one,
He said: “It is a sin.”
Then I held forth another.
He said: “It is a sin.”
Then I held forth another.
He said: “It is a sin.”
And so to the end.
Always He said: “It is a sin.”
At last, I cried out:
“But I have non other.”
He looked at me
With kinder eyes.
“Poor soul,” he said.

Aye, 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.

Each small gleam was a voice,
A lantern voice —
In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
A chorus of colors 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 colors 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 hour hymning.
When the marvellous chorus comes over the
water,
Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.

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.”

INTRIGUE

Thou art my love,
And thou art the peace of sundown
When the blue shadows soothe,
And the grasses and the leaves sleep
To the song of the little brooks,
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art a strorm
That breaks black in the sky,
And, sweeping headlong,
Drenches and cowers each tree,
And at the panting end
There is no sound
Save the melancholy cry of a single owl —
Woe is me!

Thou are my love,
And thou art a tinsel thing,
And I in my play
Broke thee easily,
And from the little fragments
Arose my long sorrow —
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art a wary violet,
Drooping from sun-caresses,
Answering mine carelessly —
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art the ashes of other men’s love,
And I bury my face in these ashes,
And I love them —
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art the beard
On another man’s face —
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art a temple,
And in this temple is an altar,
And on this altar is my heart —
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art a wretch.
Let these sacred love-lies choke thee,
From I am come to where I know your lies
as truth
And you truth as lies —
Woe is me.