Above the Battle's Front

    St. Francis, Buddha, Tolstoi, and St. John -
    Friends, if you four, as pilgrims, hand in hand,
    Returned, the hate of earth once more to dare,
    And walked upon the water and the land,

    If you, with words celestial, stopped these kings
    For sober conclave, ere their battle great,
    Would they for one deep instant then discern
    Their crime, their heart-rot, and their fiend's estate?

    If you should float above the battle's front,
    Pillars of cloud, of fire that does not slay,
    Bearing a fifth within your regal train,
    The Son of David in his strange array -

    If, in his majesty, he towered toward Heaven,
    Would they have hearts to see or understand?
    ... Nay, for he hovers there to-night we know,
    Thorn-crowned above the water and the land.

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

Written for a Musician

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Rhymes for Gloriana - IV. In Praise of Gloriana's Remarkable Golden Hair

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The Lion

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

When Gassy Thompson Struck it Rich

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

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To Buddha

    Awake again in Asia, Lord of Peace,
    Awake and preach, for her far swordsmen rise.
    And would they sheathe the sword before you, friend,
    Or scorn your way, while looking in your eyes?

    Good comrade and philosopher and prince,
    Thoughtful and thoroughbred and strong and kind,
    Dare they to move against your pride benign,
    Lord of the Law, high chieftain of the mind?

                *****

    But what can Europe say, when in your name
    The throats are cut, the lotus-ponds turn red?
    And what can Europe say, when with a laugh
    Old Asia heaps her hecatombs of dead?

Vachel Lindsay

Mark Twain and Joan of Arc

When Yankee soldiers reach the barricade
Then Joan of Arc gives each the accolade.

For she is there in armor clad, today,
All the young poets of the wide world say.

Which of our freemen did she greet the first,
Seeing him come against the fires accurst?

Mark Twain, our Chief, with neither smile nor jest,
Leading to war our youngest and our best.

The Yankee to King Arthur's court returns.
The sacred flag of Joan above him burns.

For she has called his soul from out the tomb.
And where she stands, there he will stand till doom.

        .    .    .    .    .

But I, I can but mourn, and mourn again
At bloodshed caused by angels, saints, and men.

Vachel Lindsay

Incense

    Think not that incense-smoke has had its day.
    My friends, the incense-time has but begun.
    Creed upon creed, cult upon cult shall bloom,
    Shrine after shrine grow gray beneath the sun.

    And mountain-boulders in our aged West
    Shall guard the graves of hermits truth-endowed:
    And there the scholar from the Chinese hills
    Shall do deep honor, with his wise head bowed.

    And on our old, old plains some muddy stream,
    Dark as the Ganges, shall, like that strange tide -
    (Whispering mystery to half the earth) -
    Gather the praying millions to its side,

    And flow past halls with statues in white stone
    To saints unborn to-day, whose lives of grace
    Shall make one shining, universal church
    Where all Faith...

Vachel Lindsay

On Reading Omar Khayyam

[During an anti-saloon campaign, in central Illinois.]


    In the midst of the battle I turned,
    (For the thunders could flourish without me)
    And hid by a rose-hung wall,
    Forgetting the murder about me;
    And wrote, from my wound, on the stone,
    In mirth, half prayer, half play: -
    "Send me a picture book,
    Send me a song, to-day."

    I saw him there by the wall
    When I scarce had written the line,
    In the enemy's colors dressed
    And the serpent-standard of wine
    Writhing its withered length
    From his ghostly hands o'er the ground,
    And there by his shadowy breast
    The glorious poem I found.

    This was his world-old cry:
    Thus read the famous prayer:
    "Wine, wine, wine a...

Vachel Lindsay

Foreign Missions in Battle Array

    An endless line of splendor,
    These troops with heaven for home,
    With creeds they go from Scotland,
    With incense go from Rome.
    These, in the name of Jesus,
    Against the dark gods stand,
    They gird the earth with valor,
    They heed their King's command.

    Onward the line advances,
    Shaking the hills with power,
    Slaying the hidden demons,
    The lions that devour.
    No bloodshed in the wrestling, -
    But souls new-born arise -
    The nations growing kinder,
    The child-hearts growing wise.

    What is the final ending?
    The issue, can we know?
    Will Christ outlive Mohammed?
    Will Kali's altar go?
    This is our faith tremendous, -
    Our wild hope, who shall scorn, -

Vachel Lindsay

In The Sierra Nevada

I lift my spirit to your cloudy thrones,
    And feel it broaden to your vast expanse,
        Oh! mountains, so immeasurably old,
        Crowned with bald rocks and everlasting cold,
    That melts not underneath the sun's fierce glance,
Peak above peak, fixed, dazzling, ice and stones.

Down your steep sides quick torrents leap and roar,
    And disappear, in gloomy gorges sunk,
        Fringed with black pines on dizzy verges high--
        Poised, trembling to the thunder and the cry
    Of the lost waters, through each giant trunk,
And farthest twig and tassel evermore.

Behold far down the mountain herdsman's ranche,
    The rough road winding past his lonely door,
        And in his ears, by day and night, the sound
        Of mad waves plunging d...

Kate Seymour Maclean