Stephen Vincent Benet: Всі вірші поета

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My father, he was a mountaineer,

His fist was a knotty hammer;

He was quick on his feet as a running deer,

And he spoke with a Yankee stammer.

My mother, she was merry and brave,

And so she came to her labor,

With a tall green fir for her doctor grave

And a stream for her comforting neighbor.

Army of Northern Virginia, army of legend,

Who were your captains that you could trust them so surely?

Who were your battle-flags?

Call the shapes from the mist,

Call the dead men out of the mist and watch them ride.

Tall the first rider, tall with a laughing mouth,

His long black beard is combed like a beauty's hair,

His slouch hat plumed with a curled black ostrich-feather,