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Classic and Contemporary Poetry | |||
A man adrift on a slim spar A horizon smaller than the rim of a bottle Tented waves rearing lashing dark points The near whine of froth in circles, God is cold. The incessant raise and swing of the sea And growl after growl of crest The sinkings, green, seething, endless The upheaval half-completed. God is cold. The seas are in the hollow of The Hand; Oceans may be turned to a spray Raining down through the stars Because of a gesture of pity toward a babe. Oceans may become grey ashes, Die with a long moan and a roar Amid the tumult of the fishes And the cries of the ships, Because The Hand beckons the mice. A horizon smaller than a doomed assassin's cap, Inky, surging tumults A reeling, drunken sky and no sky A pale hand sliding from a polished spar. God is cold. The puff of a coat imprisoning air: A face kissing the water-death A weary slow sway of a lost hand And the sea, the moving sea, the sea. God is cold. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BLACK RIDERS: 22 by STEPHEN CRANE THE BLACK RIDERS: 38 by STEPHEN CRANE THE BLACK RIDERS: 56 by STEPHEN CRANE THE BLACK RIDERS: 9 by STEPHEN CRANE WAR IS KIND: 1 by STEPHEN CRANE WAR IS KIND: 12 by STEPHEN CRANE WAR IS KIND: 21 by STEPHEN CRANE |
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