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Stephen Crane (Стивен Крейн)


* * *


I met a seer.
He held in his hands
The book of wisdom.
”Sir,” I addressed him,
”Let me read.”
”Child -- ” he began.
”Sir,” I said,
”Think not that I am a child,
For already I know much
Of that which you hold.
Aye, much.”

He smiled.
Then he opened the book
And held it before me. --
Strange that I should have grown so suddenly blind.



Stephen Crane's other poems:
  1. Why do you strive for greatness, fool?
  2. Once a man clambering to the housetops
  3. To the maiden
  4. On the horizon the peaks assembled
  5. You tell me this is God?


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