* * *
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:
