Stephen Vincent Bent Quotes

I stumbled, slipped... and all was gone That I had gained. Once more I lay Before the long bright Hell of ice. And still the light was far away. There was red mist before my eyes Or I could tell you how I went Across the swaying firmament, A glittering torture of cold stars, And how I fought in Titan wars... And died... and lived again upon The rack... and how the horses strain When their red task is nearly done. . . I only know that there was Pain, Infinite and eternal Pain. And that I fell and rose again.

Stephen Vincent Bent

I crawled. I could not speak or see Save dimly. The ice glared like fire, A long bright Hell of choking cold, And each vein was a tautened wire, Throbbing with torture and I crawled. My hands were wounds. So I attained The second Hell.

Stephen Vincent Bent

Life was a storm to wander through. I took the wrong way. Good and well, At least my feet sought out not Hell!

Stephen Vincent Bent

She stood there, and at once I knew The bitter thing that I must do. There could be no surrender now; Though Sleep and Death were whispering low.

Stephen Vincent Bent

It is not given me to trace The lovely laughter of that face, Like a clear brook most full of light, Or olives swaying on a height, So silver they have wings, almost; Like a great word once known and lost And meaning all things. Nor her voice A happy sound where larks rejoice, Her body, that great loveliness, The tender fashion of her dress, I may not paint them. These I see, Blazing through all eternity, A fire-winged sign, a glorious tree!

Stephen Vincent Bent

The iron ice stung like a goad, Slashing the torn shoes from my feet, And all the air was bitter sleet. And all the land was cramped with snow, Steel-strong and fierce and glimmering wan, Like pale plains of obsidian. And yet I strove and I was fire And ice and fire and ice were one In one vast hunger of desire.

Stephen Vincent Bent

I shall not rest quiet in Montparnasse. I shall not lie easy at Winchelsea. You may bury my body in Sussex grass, You may bury my tongue at Champmdy. I shall not be there. I shall rise and pass. Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.

Stephen Vincent Bent

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