"IN A NIGHT OF MIDSUMMER"

In a night of midsummer, on the still eastern shore of the ocean inlet,1

In our hearts a sense of the inaudible pulsings of the unseen, infinite sea,

Suddenly through the clear, cool air, arose the voice of a wonderful tenor; soaring and sobbing in the music of "Otello."

I knew that the singer was long dead; I knew well that it was not his living voice;

And yet truly it was as the voice of a living man; tho' heard as through a veil, still was it human; still was it living; still was it tragic;

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Still felt I the fire of the spirit of a man; I was moved by the passion of his art; I perceived the flower and essence of his person; the exquisite expression of his mind and soul;

His soul it was that seized my soul, through his voice, which was as the very voice of sorrow;

And then I thought: If man, by science and searching, can build a cunning instrument that takes over and keeps, beyond the term of human existence, the essence and flower of a man's art;

If he can recreate that most individual attribute, his articulate and musical voice, and thus the very art and passion which that voice conveys,

Why may not the Supreme Artificer, when the human body is utterly dissolved and dispersed, recover and keep forever, in some new and delicate structure, the living soul itself?

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Yet when that paper petal trembled down,

Spring thrilled the air;

And when she sang, I knew love's hight and depth

And passion and despair.

STEPHEN CRANE1 (1871-1900)

WAR IS KIND

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Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind. Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky,

All selections from Stephen Crane reprinted with the permission of and by special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized publisher.

tried

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

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,

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