Stephen Crane

None of them knew the colour of the sky.

The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting.

A seat in this boat was not unlike a seat upon a bucking broncho, and, by the same token, a broncho is not much smaller.

A mass of wet grass, marched upon, rustled like silk.

She seemed just a wee thing wallowing, miraculously top-up, at the mercy of five oceans.

He was in a moving box.

Oh, nothing, but then he seemed so damned cheerful.

The invulnerable dead man forced a way for himself.

The wind had a voice as it came over the waves, and it was sadder than the end.

It was as if seven hundred new bonnets were being tried on.

The coldness of the water was sad; it was tragic.

The regiment was like a firework that, once ignited, proceeds superior to circumstances until its blazing vitality fades.

Dark mesquit spread from horizon to horizon.

They looked to be dumped out upon the ground from the sky.

Mystic and still mystic are the laws of fate.

It was surprising that Nature had gone tranquilly on with her golden process in the midst of so much devilment.

"No, I ain't," said Bill rebelliously. "I'm one ahead."

He waited as if he expected the enemy to suddenly stop, apologize, and retire bowing. It was all a mistake.

The man was playing with this town. It was a toy for him.

He conceived Nature to be a woman with a deep aversion to tragedy.