certain that the clever reviewer had not read the book, for certainly
Crane had no illusions about the kindness of war. The title-poem of the
volume is an amazingly beautiful satire which answers all criticism.

"Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

"Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, and his kingdom--
A field where a thousand corpses lie.

* * * * *

"Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind."

Poor Stephen Crane! Like most geniuses, he had his weaknesses and his
failings; like many, if not most, geniuses, he was ill. He died of
tuberculosis, tragically young. But what a comrade he must have been,
with his extraordinary vision, his keen, sardonic comment, his
fearlessness and his failings!