Stephen Vincent Benet
Stephen Vincent Benet Poems
|41.||The Ballad Of William Sycamore [1790-1871]||3/30/2010|
|42.||Going Back To School||1/3/2003|
|43.||Love In Twilight||1/3/2003|
|44.||Dinner In A Quick Lunch Room||1/3/2003|
|46.||Elegy For An Enemy||1/3/2003|
|48.||Nightmare Number Three||3/30/2010|
|50.||The Mountain Whippoorwill||3/7/2012|
Comments about Stephen Vincent Benet
I have fallen in love with American names,
The sharp names that never get fat,
The snakeskin-titles of mining-claims,
The plumed war-bonnet of Medicine Hat,
Tucson and Deadwood and Lost Mule Flat.
Seine and Piave are silver spoons,
But the spoonbowl-metal is thin and worn,
There are English counties like hunting-tunes
Played on the keys of a postboy's horn,
But I will remember where I was born.
I will remember Carquinez Straits,
Little French Lick and Lundy's Lane,
The Yankee ships and the Yankee dates
And the bullet-towns of Calamity Jane.
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.