Stephen Vincent Benet: Всі вірші поета

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The Lover In Hell

Eternally the choking steam goes up

From the black pools of seething oil. . . .

How merry

Those little devils are! They've stolen the pitchfork

From Bel, there, as he slept . . . Look! — oh look, look!

They've got at Nero! Oh it isn't fair!

Lord, how he squeals! Stop it . . . it's, well — indecent!

But funny! . . . See, Bel's waked. They'll catch it now!

by Stephen Vincent Benet

The Innovator

(A Pharaoh Speaks.)

I said, "Why should a pyramid

Stand always dully on its base?

I'll change it! Let the top be hid,

The bottom take the apex-place!"

And as I bade they did.

The people flocked in, scores on scores,

To see it balance on its tip.

by Stephen Vincent Benet

Road And Hills

I shall go away

To the brown hills, the quiet ones,

The vast, the mountainous, the rolling,

Sun-fired and drowsy!

My horse snuffs delicately

At the strange wind;

He settles to a swinging trot; his hoofs tramp the dust.

The road winds, straightens,

by Stephen Vincent Benet

The Fiddling Wood

Gods, what a black, fierce day! The clouds were iron,

Wrenched to strange, rugged shapes; the red sun winked

Over the rough crest of the hairy wood

In angry scorn; the grey road twisted, kinked,

Like a sick serpent, seeming to environ

The trees with magic. All the wood was still —

Cracked, crannied pines bent like malicious cripples

Before the gusty wind; they seemed to nose,

by Stephen Vincent Benet

Dinner In A Quick Lunch Room

Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn,

Blowing clear notes of gold against the stars;

Strange entrees with a jangle of glass bars

Fantastically alive with subtle scorn;

Fish, by a plopping, gurgling rush of waters,

Clear, vibrant waters, beautifully austere;

Roast, with a thunder of drums to stun the ear,

A screaming fife, a voice from ancient slaughters!

by Stephen Vincent Benet

Rain After A Vaudeville Show

The last pose flickered, failed. The screen's dead white

Glared in a sudden flooding of harsh light

Stabbing the eyes; and as I stumbled out

The curtain rose. A fat girl with a pout

And legs like hams, began to sing "His Mother".

Gusts of bad air rose in a choking smother;

Smoke, the wet steam of clothes, the stench of plush,

Powder, cheap perfume, mingled in a rush.

by Stephen Vincent Benet

Portrait Of A Baby

He lay within a warm, soft world

Of motion. Colors bloomed and fled,

Maroon and turquoise, saffron, red,

Wave upon wave that broke and whirled

To vanish in the grey-green gloom,

Perspectiveless and shadowy.

A bulging world that had no walls,

A flowing world, most like the sea,

by Stephen Vincent Benet

The City Revisited

The grey gulls drift across the bay

Softly and still as flakes of snow

Against the thinning fog. All day

I sat and watched them come and go;

And now at last the sun was set,

Filling the waves with colored fire

Till each seemed like a jewelled spire

Thrust up from some drowned city. Soon

by Stephen Vincent Benet

Alexander VI Dines With The Cardinal Of Capua

Next, then, the peacock, gilt

With all its feathers. Look, what gorgeous dyes

Flow in the eyes!

And how deep, lustrous greens are splashed and spilt

Along the back, that like a sea-wave's crest

Scatters soft beauty o'er th' emblazoned breast!

A strange fowl! But most fit

For feasts like this, whereby I honor one

by Stephen Vincent Benet

The Quality Of Courage

Black trees against an orange sky,

Trees that the wind shook terribly,

Like a harsh spume along the road,

Quavering up like withered arms,

Writhing like streams, like twisted charms

Of hot lead flung in snow. Below

The iron ice stung like a goad,

Slashing the torn shoes from my feet,

by Stephen Vincent Benet

Love In Twilight

There is darkness behind the light — and the pale light drips

Cold on vague shapes and figures, that, half-seen loom

Like the carven prows of proud, far-triumphing ships —

And the firelight wavers and changes about the room,

As the three logs crackle and burn with a small still sound;

Half-blotting with dark the deeper dark of her hair,

Where she lies, head pillowed on arm, and one hand curved round

To shield the white face and neck from the faint thin glare.

by Stephen Vincent Benet

Young Blood

"But, sir," I said, "they tell me the man is like to die!" The Canon shook his head indulgently. "Young blood, Cousin," he boomed. "Young blood! Youth will be served!"

— D'Hermonville's Fabliaux.

He woke up with a sick taste in his mouth

And lay there heavily, while dancing motes

Whirled through his brain in endless, rippling streams,

And a grey mist weighed down upon his eyes

So that they could not open fully. Yet

After some time his blurred mind stumbled back

by Stephen Vincent Benet