Caught in a Net

    Upon her breast her hands and hair
    Were tangled all together.
    The moon of June forbade me not -
    The golden night time weather
    In balmy sighs commanded me
    To kiss them like a feather.

    Her looming hair, her burning hands,
    Were tangled black and white.
    My face I buried there.    I pray -
    So far from her to-night -
    For grace, to dream I kiss her soul
    Amid the black and white.

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 Moon's the North Wind's Cooky

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Rhymes for Gloriana - III. On Receiving One of Gloriana's Letters

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Star of My Heart

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

On the Building of Springfield

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Alone in the Wind, on the Prairie

I know a seraph who has golden eyes,
And hair of gold, and body like the snow.
Here in the wind I dream her unbound hair
Is blowing round me, that desire's sweet glow
Has touched her pale keen face, and willful mien.
And though she steps as one in manner born
To tread the forests of fair Paradise,
Dark memory's wood she chooses to adorn.
Here with bowed head, bashful with half-desire
She glides into my yesterday's deep dream,
All glowing by the misty ferny cliff
Beside the far forbidden thundering stream.
Within my dream I shake with the old flood.
I fear its going, ere the spring days go.
Yet pray the glory may have deathless years,
And kiss her hair, and sweet throat like the snow.

Vachel Lindsay

My Lady in her White Silk Shawl

    My lady in her white silk shawl
        Is like a lily dim,
    Within the twilight of the room
        Enthroned and kind and prim.

    My lady!    Pale gold is her hair.
        Until she smiles her face
    Is pale with far Hellenic moods,
        With thoughts that find no place

    In our harsh village of the West
        Wherein she lives of late,
    She's distant as far-hidden stars,
        And cold - (almost!) - as fate.

    But when she smiles she's here again
        Rosy with comrade-cheer,
    A Puritan Bacchante made
        To laugh around the year.

    The merry gentle moon herself,
        Heart-stirring too, like her,
    Wakening wild and innocent love
        In every worshipper.

Vachel Lindsay

By the Spring, at Sunset

    Sometimes we remember kisses,
    Remember the dear heart-leap when they came:
    Not always, but sometimes we remember
    The kindness, the dumbness, the good flame
    Of laughter and farewell.

                    Beside the road
    Afar from those who said "Good-by" I write,
    Far from my city task, my lawful load.

    Sun in my face, wind beside my shoulder,
    Streaming clouds, banners of new-born night
    Enchant me now.    The splendors growing bolder
    Make bold my soul for some new wise delight.

    I write the day's event, and quench my drouth,
    Pausing beside the spring with happy mind.
    And now I feel those kisses on my mouth,
    Hers most of all, one little friend most kind.

Vachel Lindsay

Genesis

    I was but a half-grown boy,
    You were a girl-child slight.
    Ah, how weary you were!
    You had led in the bullock-fight . . .
    We slew the bullock at length
    With knives and maces of stone.
    And so your feet were torn,
    Your lean arms bruised to the bone.

    Perhaps 'twas the slain beast's blood
    We drank, or a root we ate,
    Or our reveling evening bath
    In the fall by the garden gate,
    But you turned to a witching thing,
    Side-glancing, and frightened me;
    You purred like a panther's cub,
    You sighed like a shell from the sea.

    We knelt.    I caressed your hair
    By the light of the leaping fire:
    Your fierce eyes blinked with smoke,
    Pine-fumes, that enhanced desire.
    ...

Vachel Lindsay

He Climbs the Hill Where the Tree Grows

    On -
    Thro' the gleaming gray
    I ran to the storm and clang -
    To the red, red hill where the great tree swayed -
    And scattered bells like autumn leaves.
    How the red bells rang!
    My breath within my breast
    Was held like a diver's breath -
    The leaves were tangled locks of gray -
    The boughs of the tree were white and gray,
    Shaped like scythes of Death.
    The boughs of the tree would sweep and sway -
    Sway like scythes of Death.
    But it was beautiful!
    I knew that all was well.
    A thousand bells from a thousand boughs
    Each moment bloomed and fell.
    On the hill of the wind-swept tree
    There were no bells asleep;
    They sang beneath my trailing wings
    Like rivers sweet and stee...

Vachel Lindsay

To Lady Jane

Romance was always young.
You come today
Just eight years old
With marvellous dark hair.
Younger than Dante found you
When you turned
His heart into the way
That found the heavenly stair.

Perhaps we must be strangers.
I confess
My soul this hour is Dante's,
And your care
Should be for dolls
Whose painted hands caress
Your marvellous dark hair.

Romance, with moonflower face
And morning eyes,
And lips whose thread of scarlet prophesies
The canticles of a coming king unknown,
Remember, when you join him
On his throne,
Even me, your far off troubadour,
And wear
For me some trifling rose
Beneath your veil,
Dying a royal death,
Happy and pale,
Choked by the passion,
The wonder and the snare,

Vachel Lindsay