Skip to content

Stephen Crane

I stood upon a high place,

And saw, below, many devils

Running, leaping,

And carousing in sin.

Read full poem →

noun

A person whose profession is acting on the stage, in films, or on television.

The lead actor delivered a powerful performance that moved the entire audience to tears.

Know more →

The Foreigner

85 lines
Amy Lowell·1874–1925
ave at you, you Devils!My back's to this tree,For you're nothing so niceThat the hind-side of meWould escape your assault.Come on now, all three! Here's a dandified gentleman,Rapier at point,And a wrist which whirls roundLike a circular joint.A spatter of blood, man!That's just to anoint And make supple your limbs.'Tis a pity the silkOf your waistcoat is stained.Why! Your heart's full of milk,And so full, it spills over!I'm not of your ilk. You said so, and laughedAt my old-fashioned hose,At the cut of my hair,At the length of my nose.To carve it to patternI think you propose. Your pardon, young Sir,But my nose and my swordAre proving themselvesIn quite perfect accord.I grieve to have spottedYour shirt. On my word! And hullo! You Bully!That blade's not a stickTo slash right and left,And my skull is too thickTo be cleft with such cuffsOf a sword. Now a lick Down the side of your face.What a pretty, red line!Tell the taverns that scarWas an honour. Don't whineThat a stranger has marked you.* * * * *The tree's there, You Swine! Did you think to get inAt the back, while your friendsMade a little diversionIn front? So it ends,With your sword clattering downOn the ground. 'Tis amends I make for your courteousReception of me,A foreigner, landedFrom over the sea.Your welcome was ferventI think you'll agree. My shoes are not buckledWith gold, nor my hairOiled and scented, my jacket'sNot satin, I wearCorded breeches, wide hats,And I make people stare! So I do, but my heartIs the heart of a man,And my thoughts cannot twirlIn the limited span'Twixt my head and my heels,As some other men's can. I have business more strangeThan the shape of my boots,And my interests rangeFrom the sky, to the rootsOf this dung-hill you live in,You half-rotted shoots Of a mouldering tree!Here's at you, once more.You Apes! You Jack-fools!You can show me the door,And jeer at my ways,But you're pinked to the core. And before I have done,I will prick my name inWith the front of my steel,And your lily-white skinShall be printed with me.For I've come here to win!