Stephen Vincent Benet

(1898 - 1943 / Pennsylvania / United States)

Stephen Vincent Benet Poems

1. Campus Sonnets: Talk 3/30/2010
2. Minor Litany 8/31/2015
3. The Drug-Shop, Or, Endymion In Edmonstoun 1/3/2003
4. Nos Immortales 1/3/2003
5. Alexander Vi Dines With The Cardinal Of Capua 1/3/2003
6. Campus Sonnets: May Morning 3/30/2010
7. The Falconer Of God 3/30/2010
8. Ghosts Of A Lunatic Asylum 3/30/2010
9. Campus Sonnets: Before An Examination 3/30/2010
10. The City Revisited 1/3/2003
11. The General Public 1/3/2003
12. The Fiddling Wood 1/3/2003
13. Rain After A Vaudeville Show 1/3/2003
14. Portrait Of A Baby 1/3/2003
15. Talk 1/3/2003
16. The Breaking Point 1/3/2003
17. The Hemp 1/3/2003
18. Before An Examination 1/3/2003
19. Young Blood 1/3/2003
20. Three Day's Ride 3/30/2010
21. Campus Sonnets: Return - 1917 3/30/2010
22. The Congressmen Came Out To See Bull Run 3/30/2010
23. Portrait Of A Boy 1/3/2003
24. Dedication 1/3/2003
25. The Innovator 1/3/2003
26. A Minor Poet 1/3/2003
27. Return - 1917 1/3/2003
28. Road And Hills 1/3/2003
29. The White Peacock 1/3/2003
30. 1936 3/30/2010
31. Robert E. Lee 3/30/2010
32. Army Of Northern Virginia 3/30/2010
33. Winged Man 1/3/2003
34. Difference 3/30/2010
35. The Quality Of Courage 1/3/2003
36. Ghosts Of A Lunatic Asylum 1/3/2003
37. Poor Devil! 1/3/2003
38. May Morning 1/3/2003
39. Metropolitan Nightmare 3/30/2010
40. The Ballad Of William Sycamore [1790-1871] 3/30/2010

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Best Poem of Stephen Vincent Benet

The Mountain Whippoorwill

Up in the mountains, it's lonesome all the time,
(Sof' win' slewin' thu' the sweet-potato vine.)
Up in the mountains, it's lonesome for a child,
(Whippoorwills a-callin' when the sap runs wild.)
Up in the mountains, mountains in the fog,
Everythin's as lazy as an old houn' dog.
Born in the mountains, never raised a pet,
Don't want nuthin' an' never got it yet.
Born in the mountains, lonesome-born,
Raised runnin' ragged thu' the cockleburrs and corn.
Never knew my pappy, mebbe never should.
Think he was a fiddle made of mountain laurel-wood.
Never had a mammy...

Read the full of The Mountain Whippoorwill

A Minor Poet

I am a shell. From me you shall not hear
The splendid tramplings of insistent drums,
The orbed gold of the viol's voice that comes,
Heavy with radiance, languorous and clear.
Yet, if you hold me close against the ear,
A dim, far whisper rises clamorously,
The thunderous beat and passion of the sea,
The slow surge of the tides that drown the mere.

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