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1735-1820 When Daniel Boone goes by, at night, The phantom deer arise And all lost, wild America Is burning in their eyes.
Copyright © 1933 by Stephen Vincent Benét, renewed © 1961 by Rosemary Carr Benét. Used with permission of Brandt & Hochman Literary Agents, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this poem may be reproduced in any form without the written consent of the publisher.
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.
(For, though not to, D. M. C.)
The member with the face like a pale ham
Settles his stomachs in the leather chair.
The member with the mustard-color hair
Chats with the member like a curly ram,
Then silence like the shutting of a clam,
Gulps, and slow eating, and the waiters’ stare—
Like prosperous leeches settling to their fare
The members gorge, distending as they cram.
And I am fiery ice—and a hand knocks
Inside my heart. Three hours till God comes true,
When there’s no earth or sky or time in clocks
There were three stout pillars that held up all The weight and tradition of Wingate Hall. One was Cudjo and one was you And the third was the mistress, Mary Lou. Mary Lou Wingate, as slightly made And as hard to break as a rapier-blade. Bristol's daughter and Wingate's bride, Never well since the last child died But staring at pain with courteous eyes. When the pain outwits it, the body dies, Meanwhile the body bears the pain. She loved her hands and they made her vain, The tiny hands of her generation That gathered the reins of the whole plantation; The velvet sheathing the steel demur