Top 15 Stephen Vincent Benét Quotes

American poet, short story writer, novelist (1898–1943)

Stephen Vincent Benét (22 July 1898 – 13 March 1943) was an American author, poet, short story writer and novelist.

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Alternative Names: Stephen Vincent Benet

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Similar: Cormac McCarthy 60.7% Seamus Heaney 60.5% Alfred Tennyson 60.2% James Joyce 60.0% Dylan Thomas 59.9% Carl Sandburg 59.8% Czesław Miłosz 59.6% Stephen R. Lawhead 59.4% Anna Akhmatova 59.0% William Butler Yeats 59.0%

There is a wilderness we walk alone
However well-companioned

Life is not lost by dying; life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day, in all the thousand small uncaring ways.

Dreaming men are haunted men.

When Daniel Boone goes by at night
The phantom deer arise
And all lost, wild America
Is burning in their eyes.

When the last moonshiner buys his radio,
And the last, lost, wild-rabbit of a girl
Is civilized with a mail-order dress,
Something will pass that was American
And all the movies will not bring it back.

It's time to walk to the cider mill
Through air like apple wine,
And watch the moon rise over the hill,
stinging and hard and fine.

It's time to bury your seed pods deep
And let them wait and be warm.
It's time to sleep the heavy sleep
That does not wake for the storm.

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 Champmedy.
I shall not be there. I shall rise and pass.
Bury my heart at Wounded Knee

Remember that when you say ‘I will have none of this exile and this stranger for his face is not like my face and his speech is strange,’ you have denied America with that word.

Of all the Christbitten places in the two hemispheres, (Los Angeles) is the last curly kink in the pig's tail.

Truth is a hard dear to hunt. If you eat too much truth at once, you may die of the truth.

The ant finds kingdoms in a foot of ground.

Life is not lost by dying. Life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day...

Books are not men and yet they are alive, they are man's memory and his aspiration, the link between his present and his past, the tools he builds with.

Rest you, my enemy,
Slain without fault,
Life smacks but tastelessly
Lacking your salt!
Stuck in a bog whence naught
May catapult me,
Come from the grave, long-sought,
Come and insult me!

All night long like a moving stain,
(The trees are breaking, my son,)
The black ghost wanders his house of pain.
There is blood where his hand has lain.

It is wrong he should wear a chain.
(The sky is falling, my son.)

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