Quote

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.Because your lover threw wild hands toward the skyAnd the affrighted steed ran on alone,Do not weep.War is kind.

Stephen Crane

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Stephen Crane
Age: 81 †
Born: 1981
Born: November 1
Died: 1900
Died: June 5
Author
Baseball Player
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Newark
New Jersey
Johnston Smith
Lovers
Steed
Toward
Maiden
Alone
Maidens
War
Threw
Hands
Weep
Kind
Ran
Lover
Wild

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Every sin is the result of collaboration.
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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.
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I saw a man pursuing the horizon
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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.
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It was surprising that Nature had gone tranquilly on with her golden process in the midst of so much devilment.
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The voice of God whispers in the heart So softly That the soul pauses, Making no noise, And strives for these melodies, Distant, sighing, like faintest breath, And all the being is still to hear.
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Unwind my riddle.Cruel as hawks the hours flyWounded men seldom come home to dieThe hard waves see an arm flung highScorn hits strong because of a lieYet there exists a mystic tie.Unwind my riddle.
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Such an assemblage of the spraddle-legged men of the middle class, whose hands were bent and shoulders stooped from delving and constructing, had never appeared to an Asbury Park summer crowd, and the latter was vaguely amused.
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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.
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Perhaps an individual must consider his own death to be the final phenomenon of nature.
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A very little boy stood upon a heap of gravel for the honour of Rum Alley. He was throwing stones at howling urchins from Devil's Row, who were circling madly about the heap and pelting him. His infantile countenance was livid with the fury of battle. His small body was writhing in the delivery of oaths.
Stephen Crane
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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 killingAnd a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Stephen Crane
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Let me into the darkness again.
Stephen Crane
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The word is clear only to the kind who on peak or plain, from dark northern ice-fields to the hot wet jungles, through all wine and want, through lies and unfamiliar truth, dark or light, are governed by the unknown gods, and though each man knows the law, no man may give tongue to it.
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A MAN FEARED A man feared that he might find an assassin Another that he might find a victim. One was more wise than the other.
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He vaguely desired to walk around and around the body and stare the impulse of the living to try to read in dead eyes the answer to the Question.
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Sometimes, the most profound of awakenings come wrapped in the quietest of moments.
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When the suicide arrived at the sky, the people there asked him: Why? He replied: Because no one admired me.
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Over the river a golden ray of sun came through the hosts of leaden rain clouds.
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There were many who went in huddled procession,They knew not wither,But, at any rate, success or calamityWould attend all in equality.There was one who sought a new road,He went into direful thickets,And ultimately he died thus, aloneBut they said he had courage.
Stephen Crane