A man said to the universe: "Sir I exist!" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation." - Stephen Crane

Many a man ought to have a bath-tub larger than the boat which here rode upon the sea.

"A Man Adrift On A Slim Spar"

A man adrift on a slim spar
A horizon smaller than the rim of a bottle
Tented waves rearing lashy dark points
The near whine of froth in circles.
God is cold.

The incessant raise and swing of the sea
And growl after growl of crest
The sinkings, green, seething, endless
The upheaval half-completed.
God is cold.

The seas are in the hollow of The Hand;
Oceans may be turned to a spray
Raining down through the stars
Because of a gesture of pity toward a babe.
Oceans may become gray ashes,
Die with a long moan and a roar
Amid the tumult of the fishes
And the cries of the ships,
Because The Hand beckons the mice.
A horizon smaller than a doomed assassin's cap,
Inky, surging tumults
A reeling, drunken sky and no sky
A pale hand sliding from a polished spar.
God is cold.

The puff of a coat imprisoning air:
A face kissing the water-death
A weary slow sway of a lost hand
And the sea, the moving sea, the sea.
God is cold.

I WALKED IN A DESERT.
AND I CRIED,
'AH, GOD, TAKE ME FROM THIS PLACE!'
A VOICE SAID, 'IT IS NO DESERT.'
I CRIED, 'WELL, BUT — THE SAND, THE HEAT, THE VACANT HORIZON.'
A VOICE SAID, 'IT IS NO DESERT.