Darling Daughter of Babylon

    Too soon you wearied of our tears.
    And then you danced with spangled feet,
    Leading Belshazzar's chattering court
    A-tinkling through the shadowy street.
    With mead they came, with chants of shame.
    DESIRE'S red flag before them flew.
    And Istar's music moved your mouth
    And Baal's deep shames rewoke in you.

    Now you could drive the royal car;
    Forget our Nation's breaking load:
    Now you could sleep on silver beds -
    (Bitter and dark was our abode.)
    And so, for many a night you laughed,
    And knew not of my hopeless prayer,
    Till God's own spirit whipped you forth
    From Istar's shrine, from Istar's stair.

    Darling daughter of Babylon -
    Rose by the black Euphrates flood -
    Again your beauty grew more dear
    Than my slave's bread, than my heart's blood.
    We sang of Zion, good to know,
    Where righteousness and peace abide....
    What of your second sacrilege
    Carousing at Belshazzar's side?

    Once, by a stream, we clasped tired hands -
    Your paint and henna washed away.
    Your place, you said, was with the slaves
    Who sewed the thick cloth, night and day.
    You were a pale and holy maid
    Toil-bound with us.    One night you said: -
    "Your God shall be my God until
    I slumber with the patriarch dead."

    Pardon, daughter of Babylon,
    If, on this night remembering
    Our lover walks under the walls
    Of hanging gardens in the spring,
    A venom comes from broken hope,
    From memories of your comrade-song
    Until I curse your painted eyes
    And do your flower-mouth too much wrong.

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

Factory Windows are always Broken

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The Broncho that Would Not Be Broken

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Here's to the Mice!

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

What the Forester Said

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

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The Destruction Of Babylon.

An awful vision floats before my sight,
Black as the storm and fearful as the night:
Thy fall, oh Babylon!--the awful doom
Pronounced by Heaven to hurl thee to the tomb,
Peals in prophetic thunder in mine ear--
The voice of God foretelling ruin near!

    Hark! what strange murmurs from the hills arise,
Like rushing torrents from the bursting skies!
Loud as the billows of the restless tide,
In strange confusion flowing far and wide,
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The shriek--the shout--the battle's stern array--
The gathering cry of nations from afar--
The tramp of steeds--the tumult of the war--
Burst on mine ear, and o'er thy fated towers
Hovers despair, and fierce destruction lowers;
Within the fire--without the vengeful sword;
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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

By The Waters Of Babylon

B.C. 570

(Macmillan's Magazine, October 1866.)


Here where I dwell I waste to skin and bone;
    The curse is come upon me, and I waste
    In penal torment powerless to atone.
The curse is come on me, which makes no haste
    And doth not tarry, crushing both the proud
    Hard man and him the sinner double-faced.
Look not upon me, for my soul is bowed
    Within me, as my body in this mire;
    My soul crawls dumb-struck, sore-bested and cowed.
As Sodom and Gomorrah scourged by fire,
    As Jericho before God's trumpet-peal,
    So we the elect ones perish in His ire.
Vainly we gird on sackcloth, vainly kneel
    With famished faces toward Jerusalem:
    His heart is shut against us not to feel,
His ears against our cry He shutte...

Christina Georgina Rossetti

Babylon

The blue dusk ran between the streets; my love was winged within my mind;
It left to-day and yesterday and thrice a thousand years behind.
To-day was past and dead for me for from to-day my feet had run
Through thrice a thousand years to walk the ways of ancient Babylon.
On temple top and palace roof the burnished gold flung back the rays
Of a red sunset that was dead and lost beyond a million days.
The tower of heaven turns darker blue; a starry sparkle now begins;
The mystery and magnificence, the myriad beauty and the sins
Come back to me. I walk beneath the shadowy multitude of towers;
Within the gloom the fountain jets its pallid mist in lily flowers.
The waters lull me, and the scent of many gardens, and I hear
Familiar voices, and the voice I love is whispering in my ear.
...

George William Russell

Donna Clara.

(From the German of Heine)


In the evening through her garden
Wanders the Alcalde's daughter,
Festal sounds of drum and trumpet
Ring out hither from the Castle.


"I am weary of the dances,
Honeyed words of adulation
From the knights who still compare me
To the sun with dainty phrases.


"Yes, of all things I am weary,
Since I first beheld by moonlight
Him, my cavalier, whose zither
Nightly draws me to my casement.


"As he stands so slim and daring,
With his flaming eyes that sparkle,
And with nobly pallid features,
Truly, he St. George resembles."


Thus went Donna Clara dreaming,
On the ground her eyes were fastened.
When she raised them, lo! before her
Stood the handsome knightly strang...

Emma Lazarus

The October Night.

POET.
My haunting grief has vanished like a dream,
Its floating fading memory seems one
With those frail mists born of the dawn's first beam,
Dissolving as the dew melts in the sun.


MUSE.
What ailed thee then, O poet mine;
What secret misery was thine,
Which set a bar 'twixt thee and me?
Alas, I suffer from it still;
What was this grief, this unknown ill,
Which I have wept so bitterly?


POET.
'T was but a common grief, well known of men.
But, look you, when our heavy heart is sore,
Fond wretches that we are! we fancy then
That sorrow never has been felt before.


MUSE.
There cannot be a common grief,
Save that of common souls; my friend,
Speak out, and give thy heart relief,
Of this grim secret make an ...

Emma Lazarus