Stephen Crane






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 searching eyes,
A call: “John!”

                          *   *   *
Come, arise, hunter!
Can you not hear?

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