I couldn’t find a picture of this book cover, which isn’t that shocking since it was published 1964 and is pretty irrelevant to the history of literature. Stephen Crane was a brilliant storyteller (Maggie is easily my favorite novella ever published), but his poems hold no such mystique.
The collection I read contained about 50 poems selected and introduced by Gerald D. McDonald. Overall, I was unimpressed. Most of them have that striking, poem-altering last line that I learned not to do in high school. I would not have published these poems if they came across my desk today; they all feel like tricks. I’m glad this kind of writing went out of style.
Which is sad, because I was expecting more.