by Stephen Crane
The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top. Blood—blood and torn grass— Had marked the rise of his agony— This lone hunter. The grey-green woods impassive Had watched the threshing of his limbs. A canoe with flashing paddle, A girl with soft searching eyes, A call: "John!" . . . . . . . Come, arise, hunter! Can you not hear? The chatter of a death-demon from a tree- top.