Besides his many novels, short stories and poems, Crane was writing, at the time of his death, descriptions of the world’s great battles for _Lippincott’s Magazine_; his droll _Whilomville Stories_ for boys were appearing in _Harper’s Monthly_ and he was beginning a series of similar stories for girls. It is more than probable that this feverish energy of production aggravated the illness that caused Crane’s death. He reached his refuge in the Black Forest only to die at the journey’s end, June 5, 1900. I SAW A MAN I saw a man pursuing the horizon; Round and round they sped. I was disturbed at this; I accosted the man. “It is futile,” I said, “You can never”— “You lie,” he cried, And ran on. THE WAYFARER The wayfarer, Perceiving the pathway to truth, Was struck with astonishment. It was thickly grown with weeds. “Ha,” he said, “I see that no one 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.” HYMN 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 to the stars: “O God, save us!” THE BLADES OF GRASS In Heaven, Some little blades of grass Stood before God. “What did you do?” Then all save one of the little blades Began eagerly to relate The merits of their lives. This one stayed a small way behind, Ashamed. Presently, God said, “And what did you do?” The little blade answered, “Oh, my Lord, Memory is bitter to me, For, if I did good deeds, I know not of them.” Then God, in all his splendor, Arose from his throne. “Oh, best little blade of grass!” he said. _Edwin Ford Piper_