The University of Virginia Edition of The Works of Stephen Crane ::

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.

[What says the sea, little shell]

“What says the sea, little shell?
“What says the sea?
“Long has our brother been silent to us
“Kept his message for the ships
“Awkward ships, stupid ships.”

“The sea bids you mourn, oh, pines
“Sing low in the moonlight.
“He sends tale of the land of doom
“Of place where endless falls
“A rain of women's tears
“And men in grey robes
“—Men in grey robes—
“Chant the unknown pain.”

“What says the sea, little shell?
“What says the sea?
“Long has our brother been silent to us
“Kept his message for the ships
“Puny ships, silly ships.”

“The sea bids you teach, oh, pines
“Sing low in the moonlight.
“Teach the gold of patience
“Cry gospel of gentle hands
“Cry a brotherhood of hearts
“The sea bids you teach, oh, pines.”

“And where is the reward, little shell?
“What says the sea?
“Long has our brother been silent to us
“Kept his message for the ships
“Puny ships, silly ships.”

“No word says the sea, oh, pines
“No word says the sea.
“Long will your brother be silent to you
“Keep his message for the ships
“Oh, puny pines, silly pines.”

[To the maiden]

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.

[A little ink more or less]

A little ink more or less!
It surely can't matter?
Even the sky and the opulent sea,
The plains and the hills, aloof,
Hear the uproar of all these books.
But it is only a little ink more or less.

What?
You define me God with these trinkets?
Can my misery meal on an ordered walking
Of surpliced numbskulls?
And a fanfare of lights?
Or even upon the measured pulpiting
Of the familiar false and true?
Is this God?
Where, then, is hell?
Show me some bastard mushroom
Sprung from a pollution of blood.
It is better.

Where is God?

[“Have you ever made a just man?”]

“Have you ever made a just man?”
“Oh, I have made three,” answered God
“But two of them are dead
“And the third—
“Listen! Listen!
“And you will hear the thud of his defeat.”

[I explain the silvered passing of a ship at night]

I explain the silvered passing of a ship at night
The sweep of each sad lost wave
The dwindling boom of the steel thing's striving
The little cry of a man to a man
A shadow falling across the greyer night
And the sinking of the small star.

Then the waste, the far waste of waters
And the soft lashing of black waves
For long and in loneliness.

Remember, thou, oh ship of love
Thou leavest a far waste of waters
And the soft lashing of black waves
For long and in loneliness.

[I have heard the sunset song of the birches]

“I have heard the sunset song of the birches
“A white melody in the silence
“I have seen a quarrel of the pines.
“At nightfall
“The little grasses have rushed by me
“With the wind-men.
“These things have I lived,” quoth the maniac,
“Possessing only eyes and ears.
“But, you—
“You don green spectacles before you look at roses.”

[Fast rode the knight]

Fast rode the knight
With spurs, hot and reeking
Ever waving an eager sword.
“To save my lady!”
Fast rode the knight
And leaped from saddle to war.
Men of steel flickered and gleamed
Like riot of silver lights
And the gold of the knight's good banner
Still waved on a castle wall.

A horse
Blowing, staggering, bloody thing
Forgotten at foot of castle wall.
A horse
Dead at foot of castle wall.

[Forth went the candid man]

Forth went the candid man
And spoke freely to the wind—
When he looked about him he was in a far strange country.

Forth went the candid man
And spoke freely to the stars—
Yellow light tore sight from his eyes.

“My good fool,” said a learned bystander
“Your operations are mad.”

“You are too candid,” cried the candid man
And when his stick left the head of the learned bystander
It was two sticks.

[You tell me this is God]

You tell me this is God?
I tell you this is a printed list,
A burning candle and an ass.

[On the desert]

On the desert
A silence from the moon's deepest valley.
Fire-rays fall athwart the robes
Of hooded men, squat and dumb.
Before them, a woman
Moves to the blowing of shrill whistles
And distant-thunder of drums
While slow things, sinuous, dull with terrible color
Sleepily fondle her body
Or move at her will, swishing stealthily over the sand.
The snakes whisper softly;
The whispering, whispering snakes
Dreaming and swaying and staring
But always whispering, softly whispering.
The wind streams from the lone reaches
Of Arabia, solemn with night,
And the wild fire makes shimmer of blood
Over the robes of the hooded men
Squat and dumb.
Bands of moving bronze, emerald, yellow,
Circle the throat and the arms of her
And over the sands serpents move warily
Slow, menacing and submissive,
Swinging to the whistles and drums,
The whispering, whispering snakes,
Dreaming and swaying and staring
But always whispering, softly whispering.
The dignity of the accursèd;
The glory of slavery, despair, death
Is in the dance of the whispering snakes.

[A newspaper is a collection of half-injustices]

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.

[The wayfarer]

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.”

[A slant of sun on dull brown walls]

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 cluttered incoherency that says at the stars:
“O, God, save us!”

[Once a man clambering to the house-tops]

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.

[There was a man with tongue of wood]

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.

[The successful man has thrust himself]

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 speech in guiltless ignorance,
Innocence.

[In the night]

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-drops
“Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
“Give voice to us we pray oh, Lord
“That we may sing Thy goodness to the sun.”

In the evening
The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights.
“Oh, Master
“Thou that 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, oh, Lord—
“Humble, idle, futile peaks.”

In the night
Grey heavy clouds muffled the valleys
And the peaks looked toward God, alone.

[The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top]

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.

[The impact of a dollar upon the heart]

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 feet 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.

[A man said to the universe]

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]

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]

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.”

[There was one I met upon the road]

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 none other.”
He looked at me
With kinder eyes.
“Poor soul,” he said.

[Aye, workman, make me a dream]

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]

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 marvelous chorus comes over the water
Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.

[The trees in the garden rained flowers]

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]

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.

[Love forgive me if I wish you grief]

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 thus 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 friends
Be not in speech too civil
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.

[Ah, God, the way your little finger moved]

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.

[Once I saw thee idly rocking]

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 knew it
Torn, 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.

[Tell me why, behind thee]

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 numskull
To intrude his shade
Always between me and my peace.

[And yet I have seen thee happy with me]

And yet I have seen thee happy with me.
I am no fool
To poll stupidly into iron.
I have heard your quick breaths
And seen your arms writhe toward me;
At those times
—God help us—
I was impelled to be a grand knight,
And swagger and snap my fingers,
And explain my mind finely.
Oh, lost sweetheart,
I would that I had not been a grand knight.
I said: “Sweetheart.”
Thou said'st: “Sweetheart.”
And we preserved an admirable mimicry
Without heeding the drip of the blood
From my heart.

[I heard thee laugh]

I heard thee laugh,
And in this merriment
I defined the measure of my pain;
I knew that I was alone,
Alone with love,
Poor shivering love,
And he, little sprite,
Came to watch with me,
And at midnight
We were like two creatures by a dead camp-fire.

[I wonder if sometimes in the dusk]

I wonder if sometimes in the dusk,
When the brave lights that gild thy evenings
Have not yet been touched with flame,
I wonder if sometimes in the dusk
Thou rememberest a time,
A time when thou loved me
And our love was to thee thy all?
Is the memory rubbish now?
An old gown
Worn in an age of other fashions?
Woe is me, oh, lost one,
For that love is now to me
A supernal dream,
White, white, white with many suns.

[Love met me at noonday]

Love met me at noonday,
—Reckless imp,
To leave his shaded nights
And brave the glare,—
And I saw him then plainly
For a bungler,
A stupid, simpering, eyeless bungler,
Breaking the hearts of brave people
As the snivelling idiot-boy cracks his bowl,
And I cursed him,
Cursed him to and fro, back and forth,
Into all the silly mazes of his mind,
But in the end
He laughed and pointed to my breast,
Where a heart still beat for thee, beloved.

[I have seen thy face aflame]

I have seen thy face aflame
For love of me,
Thy fair arms go mad,
Thy lips tremble and mutter and rave.
And—surely—
This should leave a man content?
Thou lovest not me now,
But thou didst love me,
And in loving me once
Thou gavest me an eternal privilege,
For I can think of thee.

University of Virginia Library

War is Kind

[Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind]