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A youth in apparel that glittered Went to walk in a grim forest. There he met an assassin Attired all in garb of old days; He, scowling through the thickets, And dagger poised quivering, Rushed upon the youth. ”Sir,” said this latter, ”I am enchanted, believe me, To die, thus, In this medieval fashion, According to the best legends; Ah, what joy!” Then took he the wound, smiling, And died, content.
Stephen Crane’s other poems:
