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Poem by Stephen Vincent Benet


Talk


Tobacco smoke drifts up to the dim ceiling 
From half a dozen pipes and cigarettes, 
Curling in endless shapes, in blue rings wheeling, 
As formless as our talk. Phil, drawling, bets 
Cornell will win the relay in a walk, 
While Bob and Mac discuss the Giants chances; 
Deep in a morris-chair, Bill scowls at Falk, 
John gives large views about the last few dances. 

And so it goes -- an idle speech and aimless, 
A few chance phrases; yet I see behind 
The empty words the gleam of a beauty tameless, 
Friendship and peace and fire to strike men blind, 
Till the whole world seems small and bright to hold -- 
Of all our youth this hour is pure gold.



Stephen Vincent Benet


Stephen Vincent Benet's other poems:
  1. Ghosts of a Lunatic Asylum
  2. The Congressmen Came out to See Bull Run
  3. Portrait of a Boy
  4. Winged Man
  5. Lonely Burial


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