Produced by A. Light, and L. Bowser YOUNG ADVENTURE A Book of Poems by by Stephen Vincent Benet [Stephen Vincent Bene't, American Poet and short-story writer -- 1898-1943.] [Note on text: Italicized stanzas will be indented 5 spaces. Italicized words or phrases have been capitalized. Lines longer than 77 characters have been broken, and the continuation is indented two spaces.] [Note: This etext was transcribed from the 1918 American (original) edition. There are some slight differences, such as making the titles in the contents conform exactly to the titles of the individual sections, for ease of searching, and correction of mistakes which are very obviously mistakes, and not merely archaic or unorthodox usage, but great care has been taken not to change the text, and hopefully this has been accomplished.] Some of these poems were originally printed in various periodicals. To W. R. B. Dedication And so, to you, who always were Perseus, D'Artagnan, Lancelot To me, I give these weedy rhymes In memory of earlier times. Now all those careless days are not. Of all my heroes, you endure. Words are such silly things! too rough, Too smooth, they boil up or congeal, And neither of us likes emotion -- But I can't measure my devotion! And you know how I really feel -- And we're together. There, enough,...! Foreword by Chauncey Brewster Tinker In these days when the old civilisation is crumbling beneath our feet, the thought of poetry crosses the mind like the dear memory of things that have long since passed away. In our passionate desire for the new era, it is difficult to refrain oneself from the commonplace practice of speculating on the effects of warfare and of prophesying all manner of novel rebirths. But it may be well for us to remember that the era which has recently closed was itself marked by a mad idealisation of all novelties. In the literary movements of the last decade --when, indeed, any movement at all has been perceptible -- we have witnessed a bewildering rise and fall of methods and ideals. We were captivated for a time by the quest of the golden phrase and the accompanying cultivation of exotic emotions; and then, wearying of the pretty and the temperamental, we plunged into the bloodshot brutalities of naturalism.