Poem Themes Х
Random Poem Х
The Rating of Poets Х The Rating of Poems
Poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
There were not many at that lonely place, Where two scourged hills met in a little plain. The wind cried loud in gusts, then low again. Three pines strained darkly, runners in a race Unseen by any. Toward the further woods A dim harsh noise of voices rose and ceased. -- We were most silent in those solitudes -- Then, sudden as a flame, the black-robed priest, The clotted earth piled roughly up about The hacked red oblong of the new-made thing, Short words in swordlike Latin -- and a rout Of dreams most impotent, unwearying. Then, like a blind door shut on a carouse, The terrible bareness of the soulТs last house.
Stephen Vincent Benet
Stephen Vincent Benet's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail email@example.com