Young Adventure | Page 9

Stephen Vincent Benet
other night, After that breaking wave of pain. --
How they will storm and rage and fight, Servants and mistress, one and
all, "No money for the funeral!"
I broke my life there. Let it stand At that. The waters are a plain,
Heaving and bright on either hand, A tremulous and lustral peace
Which shall endure though all things cease, Filling my heart as water
fills A cup. There stand the quiet hills. So, waiting for my wings to
grow, I watch the gulls sail to and fro, Rising and falling, soft and swift,
Drifting along as bubbles drift. And, though I see the face of God
Hereafter -- this day have I trod Nearer to Him than I shall tread Ever
again. The night is dead. And there's the dawn, poured out like wine
Along the dim horizon-line. And from the city comes the chimes --
We have our heaven on earth -- sometimes!

Going Back to School

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 The
Sausalito lights burned suddenly In little dots and clumps, as if a pen
Had scrawled vague lines of gold across the hills; The sky was like a
cup some rare wine fills, And stars came as he watched -- and he was
free One splendid instant -- back in the great room, Curled in a chair
with all of them beside And the whole world a rush of happy voices,

With laughter beating in a clamorous tide. . . . Saw once again the heat
of harvest fume Up to the empty sky in threads like glass, And ran, and
was a part of what rejoices In thunderous nights of rain; lay in the grass
Sun-baked and tired, looking through a maze Of tiny stems into a new
green world; Once more knew eves of perfume, days ablaze With clear,
dry heat on the brown, rolling fields; Shuddered with fearful ecstasy in
bed Over a book of knights and bloody shields . . . The ship slowed,
jarred and stopped. There, straight ahead, Were dock and fellows.
Stumbling, he was whirled Out and away to meet them -- and his back
Slumped to the old half-cringe, his hands fell slack; A big boy's arm
went round him -- and a twist Sent shattering pain along his tortured
wrist, As a voice cried, a bloated voice and fat, "Why it's Miss Nancy!
Come along, you rat!"

Nos Immortales

Perhaps we go with wind and cloud and sun, Into the free
companionship of air; Perhaps with sunsets when the day is done, All's
one to me -- I do not greatly care; So long as there are brown hills --
and a tree Like a mad prophet in a land of dearth -- And I can lie and
hear eternally The vast monotonous breathing of the earth.
I have known hours, slow and golden-glowing, Lovely with laughter
and suffused with light, O Lord, in such a time appoint my going,
When the hands clench, and the cold face grows white, And the spark
dies within the feeble brain, Spilling its star-dust back to dust again.

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 To its
last ragged memory -- a room; Air foul with wine; a shouting, reeling

crowd Of friends who dragged him, dazed and blind with drink Out to
the street; a crazy rout of cabs; The steady mutter of his neighbor's
voice, Mumbling out dull obscenity by rote; And then . . . well, they
had brought him home it seemed, Since he awoke in bed -- oh, damn
the business! He had not wanted it -- the silly jokes, "One last, great
night of freedom ere you're married!" "You'll get no fun then!" "H-ssh,
don't tell that story! He'll have a wife soon!" -- God! the sitting down
To drink till you were sodden! . . . Like great light She came into his
thoughts. That was the worst. To wallow in the mud like this because
His friends were fools. . . . He was not fit to touch, To see, oh far, far
off, that silver place Where God stood manifest to man in her. . . .
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