Stephen Vincent Benet

My mind’s a map.
A mad sea-captain drew it Under a flowing moon until he knew it;
Winds with brass trumpets, puffy-cheeked as jugs,
And states bright-patterned like Arabian rugs. “Here there be tygers.” “Here we buried Jim.” Here…

Next, then, the peacock, gilt With all its feathers.
Look, what gorgeous dyes Flow in the eyes!
And how deep, lustrous greens are splashed and spilt Along the back, that like a sea-wave's crest Scatters soft beauty o'er th' emblazoned…

I have fallen in love with American names,
The sharp names that never get fat,
The snakeskin-titles of mining-claims,
The plumed war-bonnet of Medicine Hat,

Perhaps we go with wind and cloud and sun,
Into the free companionship of air;
Perhaps with sunsets when the day is done,
All's one to me — I do not greatly care;

Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn,
Blowing clear notes of gold against the stars;
Strange entrees with a jangle of glass bars Fantastically alive with subtle scorn;
Fish, by a plopping, gurgling rush of waters,