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.