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Page 11 text:
“
And yet at moments when the mind was hot With something fierier than joy or grief, When each known spot was an eternal spot And every leaf was an immortal leaf, I think I have seen you, not as one, But clad in diverse semblances and powers, Always the same, as light falls from the sun, And always different, as the differing hours. Yet through each altered garment that you wore, The naked body, shaking the heart ' s core. And I have seen and heard you in the dry Close-huddled furnace of the city street When the parched moort was planted in the sky And the limp air hung dead against the heat. I saw you rise, red as that rusty plant, Dizzied with lights, half-mad with senseless sound, Enormous metal, shaking to the chant Of a triphammer striking iron ground. Enormous power, ugly to the fool, And beautiful as a well-handled tool. This flesh was seeded from no foreign grain But Pennsylvnia and Kentucky wheat, And it has soaked in California rain And five years tempered in New England sleet To strive at last, against an alien proof And by the changes of an alien moon, To build again that blue, American roof Over a half-forgotten battle-tune And call unsurely, from a haunted ground, Armies of shadows and the shadow-sound. Receive the dream too haughty for the breast, Receive the words that should have walked as bold As the storm walks along the mountain-crest And are like beggars whining in the cold. The maimed presumption, the unskilful skill, The patchwork colors, fading from the first, And all the fire that fretted at the will With such a barren ecstasy of thirst. Receive them all — and should you choose to touch them With one slant ray of quick, American light, Even the dust will have no power to smutch them, Even the worst will glitter in the night. If not — the dry bones littered by the way May still point giants toward their golden prey. — Stephen Vincent Benet
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Page 10 text:
“
FOREWORD American muse, whose strong and diverse heart So many men have tried to understand But only made it smaller with their art, Because you are so various as your land, As mountainous-deep, as flowered with blue rivers, Thirsty with deserts, buried under snows, As native as the shape of Navajo quivers, And native, too, as the sea-voyaged rose. Swift runner, never captured or subdued, Seven-branched elk beside the mountain stream, That half a hundred hunters have pursued But never matched their bullets with the dream, Where the great hunstmen failed, I set my sorry And mortal snare for your immortal quarry. You are the buffalo-ghost, the broncho-ghost With dollar-silver in your saddle-horn, The cowboys riding in from Painted Post, The Indian arrow in the Indian corn, And you are the clipped velvet of the lawns Where Shropshire grows from Massachusetts sods, The grey Maine rocks — and the war-painted dawns That break above the Garden of the Gods. The prairie-schooners crawling toward the ore And the cheap car, parked by the station-door. Where the skyscrapers lift their foggy plumes Of stranded smoke out of a stony mouth You are that high stone and its arrogant fumes, And you are ruined gardens in the South And bleak New England farms, wo winter-white Even their roofs look lonely, and the deep The middle grainland where the wind of night Is like all blind earth sighing in her sleep. A friend, an enemy, a sacred hag With two tied oceans in her medicine-bag. And now to see you is more difficult yet Except as an immensity of sheel Made up of wheels, oiled with inhuman sweat And glittering with the heat of ladled steel. All these you are, and each is partly you, And none is false, and none is wholly true. For as we hunt you down, you must escape And we pursue a shadow of our own That can be caught in a magician ' s cape But has the flatness of a painted stone. Never the running stag, the gull at wing, The pure elixir, the American thing. 6
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