, , , , , , , , . , , , - . . - 87 - A newspaper is a collection of half-injustices Which, bawled by boys from mile to mile, Spreads its curious opinion To a million merciful and sneering men. While families cuddle the joys of the fireside When spurred by tale of dire lone agony. A newspaper is a court Where every one is kindly and unfairly tried By a squalor of honest men. A newspaper is a market Where wisdom sells its freedom And melons are crowned by the crowd. A newspaper is a game Where his error scores the player victory While another's skill wins death. A newspaper is a symbol; It is fetless life's chronicle, A collection of loud tales Concentrating eternal stupidities, That in remote ages lived unhaltered, Roaming through a fenceless world. - , , , , , - - , . - , , . - , , . - , , , , , . . - , . . - , , . - , , . - , , . - , , , , , . . - 88 - 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." , , : . - , - , - , . , . - -, - , - - . . : . - ! - , - , - . - , - . - -, - , - , . . - 89 - A slant of sun on dull brown walls A forgotten sky of bashful blue. Toward God a mighty hymn A song of collisions and cries Rumbling wheels, hoof-beats, bells, Welcomes, farewells, love-calls, final moans, Voices of joy, idiocy, warning, despair, The unknown appeals of brutes, The chanting of flowers The screams of cut trees, The senseless babble of hens and wise men- A clutteres incoherency that says at the stars: "Oh, God, save us." , . , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , : - , ! . , . . , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , : ", !" . - 90 - Once, a man, clambering to the house-tops, 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. , , . , . , - ! - . . - 91 - 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. ; , , , . , , . . . - - . . - 92 - 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 delivers 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 his speech in guiltless ignorance, Innocence. , , . , , , , . , , , ; , . , , , , . , , : - ; , , , , , . , , , - . . - 93 - In the night Grey, heavy clouds muffled the valleys, And the peaks looked toward God, alone. "Oh, Master that movest the wind with a finger, Humble, idle, futile peaks are we. Grant that we may run swiftly across the world To huddle in worship at Thy feet." In the morning A noise of men at work came the clear blue miles And the little black cities were apparent. "Oh, Master that knowest the meaning of rain- Humble, idle, futile peaks are we. Give voice to us, we pray, 0 Lord, That we may sing Thy goodness to the sun." In the evening The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights. "Oh, Master, Thou who knowest the value of kings and birds, Thou hast made us humble, idle, futile peaks. Thou only needest eternal patience; We bow to Thy wisdom, 0 Lord- Humble, idle, futile peaks." In the night Grey, heavy clouds muffled the valleys And the peaks looked toward God, alone. , , . - , , , , . , . . - , , , , . , , , . . - , , , , , , ; , , , , , . , , , . . - 98 - 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. . , - , . - . , , , : - ! , , ! ? . . - 95 - 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 flunkeys 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 foot of a cryptic slave Who speaks always of baubles, Forgetting place, multitude, work and state, Champing and mouthing of hats Making ratful squeak of hats, Hats. - , , , . - , , , , . , , ; , , , , , , , , , - , . . - 96 - A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation." : - ! ! - , - , - , . . : ", !" " , - , - ". . - 97 - 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." , , , : - ! , - , - . ! . , , , : ", ! , - ". . - 98 - 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 gives her lover To another woman We will fight in bloody scuffle.'" Sadly the people added: "There are no violets here." , . - , . : - , , : " , , ". : - . . - 100 - * 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. ! , , . , , . - - , . . { 99 "The Poems of Stephen Crane" (A critical edition by Joseph Katz), New York, 1966, 33. , .} - 101 - 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 your hymning When the marvellous chorus comes over the water Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold. - - , , , . ; , , , , , , . , , , . , , , , , , . . - 102 - 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 misplaced By this towering wisdom." , ; , . , - - - , , . , : - , ! , ! , , : - , ! . : , , , , , . - - - ? , . - , - , - . . - 103 - "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 storm 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 art 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 weary 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 For I am come to where I know your lies as truth And your truth as lies Woe is me. Thou art my love And thou art a priestess And in thy hand is a bloody dagger And my doom comes to me surely Woe is me. Thou art my love And thou art a skull with ruby eyes And I love thee Woe is me. Thou art my love And I doubt thee And if peace came with thy murder Then would I murder. Woe is me. Thou art my love And thou art death Aye, thou art death Black and yet black But I love thee I love thee Woe, welcome woe, to me. , , , , . . , , , , , , , ; - , . . , , , , . . , , , . . , , , . . , . . , , , . . , ; , , - , , - . . , , , . . , , . . , ; , . . , , , , , , . , , . . - 104 - Love forgive me if I wish you grief For in your grief You huddle to my breast And for it Would I pay the price of your grief You walk among men And all men do not surrender And this I understand That love reaches his hand In mercy to me. He had your picture in his room A scurvy traitor picture And he smiled -Merely a fat complacence Of men who know fine women- And thus I divided with him A part of my love Fool, not to know that thy little shoe Can make men weep! -Some men weep. I weep and I gnash And I love the little shoe The little, little shoe. God give me medals God give me loud honors That I may strut before you, sweetheart And be worthy of- -The love I bear you. Now let me crunch you With full weight of affrighted love I doubted you -I doubted you- And in this short doubting My love grew like a genie For my further undoing. Beware of my Mends Be not in speech too ivil For in all courtesy My weak heart sees spectres, Mists of desires Arising from the lips of my chosen Be not civil. The flower I gave thee once Was incident to a stride A detail of a gesture But search those pale petals And see engraven thereon A record of my intention. , , - , , , . , , , , . , , , - , - . , , ! - - . , , , , . , , , , , . . - - , , . , , , , , , . . , , , , . . - 105 - Ah, God, the way your little finger moved As you thrust a bare arm backward And made play with your hair And a comb a silly gilt comb Ah, God-that I should suffer Because of the way a little finger moved. , , , , , , , ! . - 106 - Once I saw thee idly rocking -Idly rocking- And chattering girlishly to other girls, Bell-voiced, happy, Careless with the stout heart of unscarred womanhood And life to thee was all light melody. I thought of the great storms of love as I know it Tom, miserable and ashamed of my open sorrow, I thought of the thunders that lived in my head And I wish to be an ogre And hale and haul my beloved to a castle And there use the happy cruel one cruelly And make her mourn with my mourning , - - - , , , , . ; , , , , , , , , , , . . - 107 - Tell me why, behind thee, I see always the shadow of another lover? Is it real Or is this the thrice-damned memory of a better happiness? Plague on him if he be dead Plague on him if he be alive A swinish numbskull To intrude his shade Always between me and my peace , ? , ,