A man went before a strange God -- The God of many men, sadly wise. And the deity thundered loudly, Fat with rage, and puffing. "Kneel, mortal, and cringe And grovel and do homage To My Particularly Sublime Majesty."
The man fled.
Then the man went to another God -- The God of his inner thoughts. And this one looked at him With soft eyes Lit with infinite comprehension, And said, "My poor child!"
"And the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the heads of the children, even unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me."
Well, then I hate thee, unrighteous picture; Wicked image, I hate thee; So, strike with thy vengeance The heads of those little men Who come blindly. It will be a brave thing.
In a lonely place, I encountered a sage Who sat, all still, Regarding a newspaper. He accosted me: "Sir, what is this?" Then I saw that I was greater, Aye, greater than this sage. I answered him at once, "Old, old man, it is the wisdom of the age." The sage looked upon me with admiration.
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.
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.
There was a man who lived a life of fire. Even upon the fabric of time, Where purple becomes orange And orange purple, This life glowed, A dire red stain, indelible; Yet when he was dead, He saw that he had not lived.
Once I saw mountains angry, And ranged in battle-front. Against them stood a little man; Aye, he was no bigger than my finger. I laughed, and spoke to one near me, "Will he prevail?" "Surely," replied this other; "His grandfathers beat them many times." Then did I see much virtue in grandfathers -- At least, for the little man Who stood against the mountains.
In heaven, Some little blades of grass Stood before God. "What did you do?" Then all save one of the little blades Began eagerly to relate The merits of their lives. This one stayed a small way behind, Ashamed. Presently, God said, "And what did you do?" The little blade answered, "Oh my Lord, Memory is bitter to me, For, if I did good deeds, I know not of them." Then God, in all His splendor, Arose from His throne. "Oh, best little blade of grass!" He said.
Born in 1871, Crane became a prominent figure in American literature despite his short life. He authored the classic novel *The Red Badge of Courage*, which brought him acclaim. His poetic works include *The Black Riders and Other Lines* and *War is Kind*. These collections feature concise, unrhymed verses that often explore human suffering, war, and the indifference of nature. Crane's poems are marked by vivid imagery and a philosophical, sometimes cynical worldview. His style challenged the conventions of Victorian poetry and anticipated modern free verse. As a literary naturalist, he depicted characters confronting harsh realities without moralizing. Though he died in 1900 at age 28, his work left a lasting impact on American letters. His influential poetry continues to be studied for its bleak yet powerful vision.
Apprentissage pas à pas, enregistrements vocaux à partager et rappels de révision.
