Poems by Stephen Vincent Benet

I am a shell. From me you shall not hear

Next, then, the peacock, gilt

The little letters dance across the page,

Tobacco smoke drifts up to the dim ceiling

I lie stretched out upon the window-seat

"The College will reopen Sept. --." `Catalogue'.

The little man with the vague beard and guise

And so, to you, who always were

Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn,

For G. H.

Here, where men's eyes were empty and as bright

The boat ploughed on. Now Alcatraz was past

There were not many at that lonely place,

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

My friend went to the piano; spun the stool

Perhaps we go with wind and cloud and sun,

Well, I was tired of life; the silly folk,

He lay within a warm, soft world

After the whipping he crawled into bed,

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

I shall go away

It was not when temptation came,

The grey gulls drift across the bay

"Oh yes, I went over to Edmonstoun the other day and saw Johnny, mooning around as usual! He will never make his way."

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

"Ah, did you once see Shelley plain?" -- Browning.

The Planting of the Hemp.

A Pharaoh Speaks.

Eternally the choking steam goes up

Black trees against an orange sky,

(France -- Ancient Regime.)

The moon, a sweeping scimitar, dipped in the stormy straits,

"But, sir," I said, "they tell me the man is like to die!"