Stephen Vincent Benet

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,

Next, then, the peacock, gilt With all its feathers. Look, what gorgeous dyes Flow in the eyes!

The little letters dance across the page, Flaunt and retire, and trick the tired eyes; Sick of the strain, the glaring light, I rise

Tobacco smoke drifts up to the dim ceiling From half a dozen pipes and cigarettes, Curling in endless shapes, in blue rings wheeling,

I lie stretched out upon the window-seat And doze, and read a page or two, and doze, And feel the air like water on me close,

"The College will reopen Sept. --." `Catalogue'. I was just aiming at the jagged hole Torn in the yellow sandbags of their trench,

The little man with the vague beard and guise Pulled at the wicket. "Come inside!" he said, "I'll show you all we've got now -- it was size

And so, to you, who always were Perseus, D'Artagnan, Lancelot To me, I give these weedy rhymes

Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn, Blowing clear notes of gold against the stars; Strange entrees with a jangle of glass bars

For G. H. Say, does that stupid earth Where they have laid her,

Here, where men's eyes were empty and as bright As the blank windows set in glaring brick, When the wind strengthens from the sea -- and night

The boat ploughed on. Now Alcatraz was past And all the grey waves flamed to red again At the dead sun's last glimmer. Far and vast

There were not many at that lonely place, Where two scourged hills met in a little plain. The wind cried loud in gusts, then low again.

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 --

My friend went to the piano; spun the stool A little higher; left his pipe to cool; Picked up a fat green volume from the chest;

Perhaps we go with wind and cloud and sun, Into the free companionship of air; Perhaps with sunsets when the day is done,

Well, I was tired of life; the silly folk, The tiresome noises, all the common things I loved once, crushed me with an iron yoke.

He lay within a warm, soft world Of motion. Colors bloomed and fled, Maroon and turquoise, saffron, red,

After the whipping he crawled into bed, Accepting the harsh fact with no great weeping. How funny uncle's hat had looked striped red!

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

I shall go away To the brown hills, the quiet ones, The vast, the mountainous, the rolling,

It was not when temptation came, Swiftly and blastingly as flame, And seared me white with burning scars;

The grey gulls drift across the bay Softly and still as flakes of snow Against the thinning fog. All day

"Oh yes, I went over to Edmonstoun the other day and saw Johnny, mooning around as usual! He will never make his way." - Letter of George Keats, 18-- Night falls; the great jars glow against the dark,

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

"Ah, did you once see Shelley plain?" -- Browning. "Shelley? Oh, yes, I saw him often then," The old man said. A dry smile creased his face

The Planting of the Hemp. Captain Hawk scourged clean the seas (Black is the gap below the plank)

A Pharaoh Speaks. I said, "Why should a pyramid Stand always dully on its base?

Eternally the choking steam goes up From the black pools of seething oil.... How merry

Black trees against an orange sky, Trees that the wind shook terribly, Like a harsh spume along the road,

(France -- Ancient Regime.) I. Go away!

The moon, a sweeping scimitar, dipped in the stormy straits, The dawn, a crimson cataract, burst through the eastern gates, The cliffs were robed in scarlet, the sands were cinnabar,

"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.