Stephen Vincent Benet
Stephen Vincent Benet
Stephen Vincent Benét /bᵻˈneɪ/was an American poet, short story writer, and novelist. Benét is best known for his book-length narrative poem of the American Civil War, John Brown's Body, for which he won a Pulitzer Prize in 1929, and for two short stories, "The Devil and Daniel Webster"and "By the Waters of Babylon". In 2009, The Library of America selected Benét’s story "The King of the Cats"for inclusion in its two-century retrospective of American Fantastic Tales, edited by Peter Straub...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth22 July 1898
CountryUnited States of America
We thought we were done with these things but we were wrong. We thought, because we had power, we had wisdom.
When Daniel Boone goes by at night The phantom deer arise And all lost, wild America Is burning in their eyes.
You can take off your hats now, gentlemen, and I think perhaps you'd better.
Whatever poetry that was in me was coming out in the form of constructing art books!
Go play with the towns you have built of blocks, The towns where you would have bound me! I sleep in my earth like a tired fox, And my bufdfalo have found me.
As for what you're calling hard luck - well, we made New England out of it. That and codfish.
Books are not men and yet they are alive. They are man's memory and his aspiration, the link between his present and his past, the tools he builds with.
Occasionally I encounter people getting into their cars who will say, "Oh, you haven't been walking lately" - like I'm a symbol of the ancient art of walking!
I have fallen in love with American names, the sharp, gaunt names that never get fat.
Seine and Piave are silver spoons, But the spoonbowl-metal is thin and worn
Outcasts of war, misfits, rebellious souls,Seekers of some vague kingdom in the stars -They hide out in the hills and stir up trouble,Call themselves prophets, too, and prophesyThat something new is coming to the world,The Lord knows what!Well, it's a long time coming,And, meanwhile, we're the wheat between the stones.
Basically when I'm walking I'm not consciously writing or intending anything. In the manner I have learned from meditation practice, I let things unfold.
Books are not men and yet they are alive.
Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.