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diff --git a/9870.txt b/9870.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..672c342 --- /dev/null +++ b/9870.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1250 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of War is Kind, by Stephen Crane + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: War is Kind + +Author: Stephen Crane + +Release Date: October 24, 2011 [EBook #9870] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR IS KIND *** + + + + +Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer. + + + + + + + + + +WAR IS KIND + +by Stephen Crane + +Drawings by Will Bradley + +1899 + + + + 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 files 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 the 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? + "Long has our brother been silent to us, + "Kept his message for the ships, + "Awkward ships, stupid ships." + + "The sea bids you mourn, O 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 is message for the ships, + "Puny ships, silly ships." + + "The sea bids you teach, O 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, O 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, O Pines, + "No word says the sea. + "Long will your brother be silent to you, + "Keep his message for the ships, + "O puny ships, silly pines." + + + + + 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! + 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 numskulls? + And a fanfare of lights? + Or even upon the measured pulpitings + Of the familiar false and true? + Is this God? + Where, then is hell? + Show me some bastard mushrooms + Sprung from a pollution of blood. + It is better. + + Where is God? + + + + + "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, + 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, O 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, + "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 + 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 + 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 eye. + + "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? + I tell you this is a printed list, + A burning candle and an ass. + + + + + 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 mystic 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 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 accursed; + The glory of slavery, despair, death, + Is in the dance of the whispering snakes. + + + + + 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 chronical, + A collection of loud tales + Concentrating eternal stupidities, + That in remote ages lived unhaltered, + Roaming through a fenceless world. + + + + + 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 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 housetops + Appealed to the heavens. + With a 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 + 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 + 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 delivered 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 + Grey heavy clouds muffled the valleys, + And the peaks looked toward God alone. + "O 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. + "O Master that knowest the meaning of raindrops, + "Humble, idle, futile peaks are we. + "Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord, + "That we may sing Thy goodness to the sun." + In the evening + The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights. + "O Master, + "Thou that knowest the value of kings and birds, + "Thou hast made us humble, idle, futile peaks. + "Thous only needest eternal patience; + "We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord-- + "Humble, idle, futile peaks." + + In the night + Grey heavy clouds muffles the valleys, + And the peaks looked toward God alone. + + + + 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 + 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 flunkys, + 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 state, multitude, work, and state, + Champing and mouthing of hats, + Making ratful squeak of hats, + Hats. + + + + 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, + 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. + A traveller at once demanded: "Why?" + The people told him: + "Once the violets of this place spoke thus: + "'Until some woman freely give 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 + 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 non other." + He looked at me + With kinder eyes. + "Poor soul," he said. + + + + 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, + 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 hour hymning. + When the marvellous chorus comes over the + water, + Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold. + + + + 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, + 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 strorm + 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 are 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 wary 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, + From I am come to where I know your lies + as truth + And you truth as lies-- + Woe is me. + + Thou art my love, + And thou art a priestess, + And in they 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, + 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 desire + 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, + 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 + --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 make her mourn with my mourning. + + + + + 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. + 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, + 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, + 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, + --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 + 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. + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of War is Kind, by Stephen Crane + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR IS KIND *** + +***** This file should be named 9870.txt or 9870.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/9/8/7/9870/ + +Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer. + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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