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 Faiths kneel, as brothers, in one place.

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

Euclid

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

In Praise of Songs that Die

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The Master of the Dance

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Galahad, Knight Who Perished

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

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Devotional Incitements

"Not to the earth confined,
Ascend to heaven."


Where will they stop, those breathing Powers,
The Spirits of the new-born flowers?
They wander with the breeze, they wind
Where'er the streams a passage find;
Up from their native ground they rise
In mute aerial harmonies;
From humble violet, modest thyme,
Exhaled, the essential odours climb,
As if no space below the sky
Their subtle flight could satisfy:
Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride
If like ambition be 'their' guide.

Roused by this kindliest of May-showers,
The spirit-quickener of the flowers,
That with moist virtue softly cleaves
The buds, and freshens the young leaves,
The birds pour forth their souls in notes
Of rapture from a thousand throats
Here checked b...

William Wordsworth

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

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-...

Vachel Lindsay

The Hearth Eternal

    There dwelt a widow learned and devout,
    Behind our hamlet on the eastern hill.
    Three sons she had, who went to find the world.
    They promised to return, but wandered still.
    The cities used them well, they won their way,
    Rich gifts they sent, to still their mother's sighs.
    Worn out with honors, and apart from her,
    They died as many a self-made exile dies.
    The mother had a hearth that would not quench,
    The deathless embers fought the creeping gloom.
    She said to us who came with wondering eyes -
    "This is a magic fire, a magic room."
    The pine burned out, but still the coals glowed on,
    Her grave grew old beneath the pear-tree shade,
    And yet her crumbling home enshrined the light.
    The neighbors peering in wer...

Vachel Lindsay

Il Santo

    Alas! alas! what impious hands are these?
    They have cut down my dark mysterious trees,
    Defied the brooding spell
    That sealed my sacred well,
    Broken my fathers' fixed and ancient bars,
    And on the mouldering shade
    Wherein my dead were laid
    Let in the cold clear aspect of the stars.

    Slumber hath held the grove for years untold:
    Is there no reverence for a peace so old?
    Is there no seemly awe
    For bronze-engraven law,
    For dust beatified and saintly name?
    When they shall see the shrine
    Princes have held divine,
    Will they not bow before the eternal flame?

    Vain! vain! the wind of heaven for ages long
    Hath whispered manhood, "Let thine arm be strong!
    Hew down and fling awa...

Henry John Newbolt

Written After The Consecration Of The New Church At Kingswood.

When first the fane, that, white, on Kingswood-Pen,
Arrests, far off, the pausing stranger's ken,
Echoed the hymn of praise, and on that day,
Which seemed to shine with more auspicious ray,
When thousands listened to the prelate[214] there,
Who called on God, with consecrating prayer; -
I saw a village-maid, almost a child,        7
Even as a light-haired cherub, undefiled
From earth's rank fume, with innocent look, her eye
Meekly uplifted to the throne on high,
Join in the full choir's solemn harmony.
Oh, then, how many boding thoughts arose,
Lest, long ere varied life's uncertain close,
Those looks of modesty, that open truth
Lighting the forehead of ingenuous youth -
Lest these, as slowly steal maturing years,
Should fade, and grief succeed, and dimming tea...

William Lisle Bowles