A Net to Snare the Moonlight

[What the Man of Faith said]


    The dew, the rain and moonlight
    All prove our Father's mind.
    The dew, the rain and moonlight
    Descend to bless mankind.

    Come, let us see that all men
    Have land to catch the rain,
    Have grass to snare the spheres of dew,
    And fields spread for the grain.

    Yea, we would give to each poor man
    Ripe wheat and poppies red, -
    A peaceful place at evening
    With the stars just overhead:

    A net to snare the moonlight,
    A sod spread to the sun,
    A place of toil by daytime,
    Of dreams when toil is done.

Vachel Lindsay

Vachel Lindsay was an American poet known for his innovative performances of his poetry, which combined spoken word with music and theatrics. Born in Springfield, Illinois, Lindsay's work often revolved around American history and culture, reflecting his progressive social views. He played a significant role in the early 20th-century American poetry scene, influencing contemporaries and later poets with his dynamic style and passionate delivery.

Vachel Lindsay

The Santa Fe Trail (A Humoresque)

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The Tree of Laughing Bells, or The Wings of the Morning

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

On Reading Omar Khayyam

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The Ghosts of the Buffaloes

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Cornfields

    The cornfields rise above mankind,
    Lifting white torches to the blue,
    Each season not ashamed to be
    Magnificently decked for you.

    What right have you to call them yours,
    And in brute lust of riches burn
    Without some radiant penance wrought,
    Some beautiful, devout return?

Vachel Lindsay

Margery.

"Truth lights our minds as sunrise lights the world.
The heart that shuts out truth, excludes the light
That wakes the love of beauty in the soul;
And being foe to these, despises God,
The sole Dispenser of the gracious bliss
That brings us nearer the celestial gate.
They who might feed on rose-leaves of the True,
And grow in loveliness of heart and soul,
Catch at Deception's airy gossamers,
As children clutch at stars.    To some, the world
Is a bleak desert, parched with blinding sand,
With here and there a mirage, fair to view,
But insubstantial as the visions born
Of Folly and Despair.    Could we but know
How nigh we are to the true light of heaven;
In what a world of love we live and breathe;
On what a tide of truth our souls are borne!
Yet we're bu...

Charles Sangster

The Illinois Village

    O you who lose the art of hope,
    Whose temples seem to shrine a lie,
    Whose sidewalks are but stones of fear,
    Who weep that Liberty must die,
    Turn to the little prairie towns,
    Your higher hope shall yet begin.
    On every side awaits you there
    Some gate where glory enters in.

    Yet when I see the flocks of girls,
    Watching the Sunday train go thro'
    (As tho' the whole wide world went by)
    With eyes that long to travel too,
    I sigh, despite my soul made glad
    By cloudy dresses and brown hair,
    Sigh for the sweet life wrenched and torn
    By thundering commerce, fierce and bare.
    Nymphs of the wheat these girls should be:
    Kings of the grove, their lovers strong.
    Why are they not inspired,...

Vachel Lindsay

Among The Millet.

The dew is gleaming in the grass,
The morning hours are seven,
And I am fain to watch you pass,
Ye soft white clouds of heaven.

Ye stray and gather, part and fold;
The wind alone can tame you;
I think of what in time of old
The poets loved to name you.

They called you sheep, the sky your sward,
A field without a reaper;
They called the shining sun your lord,
The shepherd wind your keeper.

Your sweetest poets I will deem
The men of old for moulding
In simple beauty such a dream,
And I could lie beholding,

Where daisies in the meadow toss,
The wind from morn till even,
Forever shepherd you across
The shining field of heaven.

Archibald Lampman

Sunshine

For a Very Little Girl, Not a Year Old.Catharine Frazee Wakefield.



    The sun gives not directly
        The coal, the diamond crown;
    Not in a special basket
        Are these from Heaven let down.

    The sun gives not directly
        The plough, man's iron friend;
    Not by a path or stairway
        Do tools from Heaven descend.

    Yet sunshine fashions all things
        That cut or burn or fly;
    And corn that seems upon the earth
        Is made in the hot sky.

    The gravel of the roadbed,
        The metal of the gun,
    The engine of the airship
        Trace somehow from the sun.

    And so your soul, my lady -
        (Mere sunshine, nothing more) -
    Prepares me the contraptions...

Vachel Lindsay

I Heard Immanuel Singing

(The poem shows the Master, with his work done, singing to free his heart in Heaven.)

This poem is intended to be half said, half sung, very softly, to the well-known tune: -

            "Last night I lay a-sleeping,
            There came a dream so fair,
            I stood in Old Jerusalem
            Beside the temple there, - " etc.

Yet this tune is not to be fitted on, arbitrarily.    It is here given to suggest the manner of handling rather than determine it.


                    # To be sung. #
    I heard Immanuel singing
    Within his own good lands,
    I saw him bend above his harp.
    I watched his wandering hands
    Lost amid the harp-strings;
    Sweet, sweet I heard him play.
    His wounds were altogether healed.
   ...

Vachel Lindsay