I loved Stephen Crane's poetry long before I discovered that he, like me, was born on November 1, the Feast of All Saints.
A Youth in Apparel that Glittered
| A youth in apparel that glittered|
Went to walk in a grim forest.
There he met an assassin
Attired all in garb of old days;
He, scowling through the thickets,
And dagger poised quivering,
Rushed upon the youth.
"Sir," said this latter,
"I am enchanted, believe me,
To die, thus,
In this medieval fashion,
According to the best legends;
Ah, what joy!"
Then took he the wound, smiling,
And died, content.